D'amor sull'ali rosee
by SirensLullaby24
Summary: Christine has never been good with navigating through the French capital and when she gets caught up in a dangerous situation, there's only one who could save her. But love, as all things in life, has its price.
1. Chapter 1

She ran. To where she did not know, but she pushed her exhausted legs as fast as they could take her, as her heels stuck in every other pavement stone. She tripped and her dresses pulled her to the ground, sending her tumbling forward. She could hear him closer now and she wanted to vomit. Standing as fast as she could, she tried running again. Why, why had she taken that alleyway? Faster, faster..._He's close! _She must be bleeding. Her skirt is tangling between her feet. Something grasped her for an instant. She screamed. Shout as loud as you can, someone might hear. The air made her gag, her eyes stung from the tears.

_Get away from me! _

_Help! _

_Someone help me!_

A punch to the jaw silenced her screams and the world fell on its side. At least the stone was cold against her burning face. He kicked her stomach a couple of times and her vision went dark, as the air left her lungs. She resumed screaming, but she could not be heard more than a whisper.

He will leave now.

Yes, he's had his fun scaring her.

A hand is creeping up her skin and the cold air blows between her legs. Another rough hand slaps and chokes her, as the stones crash her skull. She feels something against her, where nothing had ever before been. _Is this how I die? Like a dog in the cold, abused by a stranger?_ She can feel him against her and starts kicking and scratching whatever she can reach. IS that hair? She pulls it. She earns a punch in the face as the man forces himself harder against her-thankfully-still intact body, shuffling through the layers of clothing. A few muffled words spit at her, but she cannot understand them. She cannot fight back. She vomits and he pulls each of her legs to the side, pinning her arms above her head. Death seemed like bliss. He groans. _Please let me die. _She tried screaming again, louder, someone should hear.

But it was long after dark and Paris life dies down quickly.

As she kicked and fought, scratched and banged against anything she could find, her attacker froze. He didn't stop or get away from her, he just turned into stone, his head shooting up as his drunken eyes searched for something she could not make out.

A sound.

Had the man not stopped, she would have missed it in the dark, but the soft sound, like a gentle breeze, accompanied movement. A shadow passed by them and the man was suddenly lifted by his neck against the opposite wall. He fought the invisible rival, yielding a knife. They struggled. She did not know what was happening, everything was dark and there were groans of pain, as well as growls of fury. She lay there, sprawled on the ground, as the storm around her raged on. Flashes of movement was all her weak eyes could understand and she recoiled in horror against the nearest wall, curling into the smallest ball and wishing earth could just swallow her whole at last.

She did not bare to try and look at the fight. Her face was shielded in her skirt between her knees and she rocked back and forth like an infant in sheer terror. Then came the sound she would never have believed to witness, but recognised it in twisted certainty; a hiss in the air, followed by a thick yet swift snap. Something heavy fell on the ground. She cowardly opened her eyes, daring to understand what had transpired, and faced her attacker lying on the ground, his head turned to look at her in a strange, unnatural angle. She knew that his neck was broken.

The shadowy figure approached her in silence, this time barely audible and slightly hunched, slacking. It stood towering over her, as if trying to decide her fate. Would she face the same end as that man? Then why had this creature defended her, acting in such ruthless precision? She trembled and the shadow took a step back, before kneeling down to her level.

"Please, do not be afraid."


	2. Chapter 2

_"__Please, do not be afraid."_

It was him! The Voice! _His _voice!

She choked and a moan escaped her dry lips. She bursted into tears of relief and the weight lifted from her chest. Yet, despite her obvious joy, he remained there staring at her, like an animal through cage bars.

"I won't hurt you."

She shook her head, trying to make him understand in between her tears that she was not afraid. No, she was safe now and they could return home. He didn't seem to understand and fiddled with his gloved fingers like a nervous school boy. Christine had found he did it compulsively whenever he was at a loss for words, a rare occurrence for him. She wanted to tell him, to explain, but the tears would not stop. She cried a river and-accepting she could not draw enough breath to sustain speech-she crawled to his feet like a child and took his gloved hands in her own. Instinctively, he tensed as she brought them to her lips, holding the leather surface against her soft, trembling mouth. She moved trying to say something but he understood. _Thank you, _she breathed to his hands and collapsed on his knee. Without a word, he unclasped his long cloak and draped it around her, holding her tight against him as she wailed once more.

How long did they stay there, unmoving, mourning? An instant merged into an hour and time lost its meaning, leaving them in the cold and dark, underneath a crystal sky. He did not bother her, leaving her to ease her agony and pour it all on him. Her tears dried and she raised her head to face the black mask in front of her. His hand brushed the hair off her face, making sure not to touch her porcelain skin.

"Let's go home, my love."

That sound...what would she not give to never stop listening to him speak. Even in that moment, when the world seemed inhuman, he managed to lift the pain away, to create a barrier between her and the hurt.

Obediently she stood and flinched as her weight distributed on her two sore legs. He caught her and swept her in his arms, her head resting on his bony shoulder.

"Did he hurt you?" his voice was worried, but his tone hinted murderous anger.

"No,"she answered half-heartedly. He had managed to scar her for a long time, though. "No, Erik. He didn't have the time to."

Erik's silence made her suspicious and she turned her head towards the pile of flesh on the ground.

"Is he dead?" She questioned.

"Yes."

It felt twisted, but she was glad to hear that. She returned her head in the crook of his neck

"Let's go home, Erik."

The man hummed in response and soon his rhythmic step had soon lulled her to sleep.

She could not remember where she was or what time it was when she woke up, but a comforting heat was embracing her body, so she decided to bask in it a while longer, before opening her eyes. Her ears were picking up only the crackling of wood, from what she assumed would be the fire providing her with warmth, and the shuffling of fabric, as she shifted under her heavy cover that smelled of home. The more she lay there unmoving, the more she felt her body in its entirety, and it was then that she realised an acute pain at the lower part of her leg, as well as her right hand. Her hand was throbbing softly and a jolt of sharp pain passed through her fingers when she flexed them. Her leg, however, did not feel that bad, only a burning sensation alongside the itchiness one gets around open cuts.

Her self-examination was terminated abruptly, as she felt someone kneel on the floor next to her. She slowly opened her eyes, as the dim gaslight made them hurt, taking a look at her surroundings; a classic, probably a little outdated-living room with dark wallpaper, paintings and bookshelves on the wall. She was on a loveseat and was covered with a thick burgundy cotton blanket. She felt terrible, dirty and sweaty, and she rubbed her eyes in an attempt to wake up.

Then, she realised she still had not turned to look at her companion, who was still inspecting her silently, and she was not surprised to be face to face with the familiar black leather of the mask she had come to know too well.

"Hello," she whispered, her voice rough and cracking.

His thin lips twisted into a slight smirk.

"Hello, my dear," he answered and his silky voice floated around her in a single note. "Are you feeling better?"

She twisted to try and get up, now feeling a few more sore spots around her skin. She scratched through her hair and looked at him grumpily.

"I guess so. But I have...I don't know, it just hurts in some places."

He moved in understanding and stood, disappearing behind the open door into the kitchen.

"I think it's...what's the word...blåmärken? I can't find the french word for it..."she said a little louder, trying to make him hear her from afar.

A moment later, he was back with a small box in one hand, a bowl of steaming water in the other, as well as a towel hanging on his shoulder.

"I don't know the word, my love, but we will soon find out," he whispered in a tone often addressed to small children and she could tell he did not have the patience to clean up her mess.

In truth, her right hand was swollen and her palm had acquired a deep purple colour. Her leg also turned out to be slightly scraped just above the ankle and she flinched when he pressed a cotton ball drenched in alcohol over it. Other than that, her pale skin was decorated with multiple dark spots, with the deeper ones on her legs, around her wrists, and under her jaw. When he put the warm compress around those areas, her mind immediately flew to the feeling of that stranger curling his fists around her neck, so she shoved his gloved hand away.

He sighed, but did not move to touch her again.

"I know this is too intrusive, my dear, but I have to treat those wounds of yours. If you could only bare me for an instant." He rubbed his temple with his free hand.

"No, it's not...it's not that, Erik. The memory is still too fresh."

He paused and she anticipated his next move.

"I understand," he finally managed to choke out. "I understand," he repeated as he combed through her hair with his fingers, taking it away from her face. "My brave Christine."

She did not know how to respond to his sudden sadness, so she just looked away as he now, more carefully, pressed on those areas again. In a few moments, he had cleaned her wounds and wrapped har hand in gauge to stabilise her aching fingers.

As he worked on her, Christine noticed his always steady hands twitching slightly and he sighed regularly. The process seemed to be torturing him and he sweated, which caused him to roll up his shirtsleeves that were slowly getting drenched. She could not remember ever seeing him in such a deteriorated state and she could feel a needle sting her heart, thinking he had suffered because of her. If only she had been wiser, this whole affair would have been avoided and they would be singing, instead of patching up wounds.

The rare sight of his skin caught her eye. It was incredibly pale, one could almost call it transparent, and blue veins snaked around, swollen in a few places. All this could be ignored, if only his skeletal arms weren't abundant with scars of various sizes. Some must have been deeper when inflicted, thick dark lines staining the ivory skin. A specific pair, however, shocked her most of all; curling around each of his wrists, like the tightest bracelet, the skin was rough and darker, hinting at something terrible Christine, despite her innocence, could guess. Bondage. The realisation created more questions than it answered, all of them buzzing inside her tired head. Chains? Ropes? She could only imagine what accompanied them. Torture? Humiliation?

What had her tormented angel endured?

He had noticed, of course. The way her eyes fixated on his destroyed arms betrayed her curiosity, but he allowed her to stare, perhaps curious himself to see what emotions they would bring. Finally, her brows furrowed and she averted her gaze to the opposite direction. It might have been too much for her, so untainted was her beautiful soul, she could not bare the cruelties of man.

"It is bothering you," he stated, before rolling his sleeve down and covering up the scars that betrayed his past. "Forgive me."

She felt awful at his comment. She wanted to apologise, explain it was not his fault he had gone through so much and that she was there for him. But the lump in her throat did not allow her to speak steadily.

"Please do not apologise, "she managed to choke out.

He simply sighed and resumed to his work, as if nothing had happened.

He was dreadfully silent. Not a word further was exchanged between them as he put her to bed and disappeared into the shadows of the hall. Instead of pondering on his behaviour, however, she cuddled inside her warm covers and was soon asleep, the laudanum he had administered already working wonders for her haunted mind.


	3. Chapter 3

It must have been a couple of hours since Christine had woken up. The clock she had asked Erik to buy her was resting on her vanity in the corner of the Louis-Philippe room and she did not bother to get up to see the actual time. But she could guess it was much earlier than her usual waking time, judging by the headache slowly developing at her temples.

She tried not to think about last night. Whenever her mind dared to drift back to that dark alleyway, her hands would tremble and her heart would race. Air abandoned her lungs and the room started spinning. Her only hope was she would have coped with it as soon as possible, especially with Il Trovatore rehearsals coming soon. She could not let herself slack down now, not when she was so close to achieving the voice Erik had been trying to built for so long. She had promised to herself to be ready, to play for him just like he envisioned her. She wanted to make him proud.

Her mind drifted tiredly back to her bruises, as a sting passed through her palm whenever she moved her fingers. She lazily examined herself, realising the dark purple patches still stained her skin and the scrapes on her knees, palms and temples had not faded at all. At least, none of them seemed to be infected and she sighed in relief, knowing the troubles of untreated wounds. She kept her mind busy with small tasks, meticulously combing her hair or sewing a whole on her right sleeve, in her efforts to distract her mind from dwelling too much on the memory. It would be better if she could forget, until all physical signs had disappeared and life moved on in peace.

It was time to leave her bedroom, much to her dismay, so she proceeded to dress herself and loosely tie her wild her in a low bun. Looking in the mirror, her reflection stared back at her pale, with deep circles around her now dull blue eyes. The wound was painfully red in contrast with her white skin and she cringed at the sight of the dried droplets of her blood. With a deep breath, she averted her eyes regretfully and pushed open the door of the Louis-Philippe room.

The hallway was bizarrely silent. No music, not even the sound of any living being broke the deathly stillness that had fallen in the house by the Lake. Erik seemed nowhere to be found, but her stomach protested loudly at her starvation as she wandered into the kitchen to look for him. In an attempt to quench her hunger, she grabbed a small Madeleine Erik had bought for her the other day, only commenting that he could never bring himself to eat a pastry bearing that name, when she had given him one of the seashell shaped cakes. She did not understand his meaning, but that was a common occurrence and she did not bother to ask for any explanation.

"Erik?" She called out to him, her voice bouncing off the walls of the drawing room.

She considered to look into his room, an idea she quickly dismissed. He had made it crystal clear that his house belonged entirely to her, save for his sole personal space, in which she was not allowed to enter uninvited. Judging by the last time she had seen the macabre decorum of his only sanctuary, she had decided it was for the best that she would never have to witness such a deathly environment.

He must have gone outside for supplies, she thought. But she knew he only went out on Wednesday mornings, when the crowds were almost nonexistent, and it was Friday, the busiest day in Parisian markets. Defeated, she dropped into the plush couch and fiddled with a thread hanging from her dress, her bottom lip pushed forward in an expression of childish despair. He never left her without a warning;even if she slept, there was a note explaining his outings waiting for her when she would wake. She had found no note on her nightstand that morning.

Suddenly, the sharp sound of something falling and breaking shattered the silence and she shot up on her feet. It came from his bedroom, accompanied by some unintelligible curses and intense growls of repressed pain. There was no denying, she had to enter that hellish room of his, whether she liked it or not. In a fruitless attempt to avoid entering, she pressed her cheek against the door and softly mumbled his name, so dear and desperate on her pink lips. No answer came from behind the door, so she gave the handle a slight tug, realising it had been strangely unlocked.

Erik was laying on the floor, trying to steady himself grabbing the closest furniture and failing miserably. Christine noticed whenever he tried to stand, he clutched his left side and writhed in pain. He hadn't seen her, consumed by his own torture.

"Erik?"she whispered, not knowing how to react to the sight of her powerful teacher gasping for breath.

He turned abruptly at the sound of her voice and-despite wearing the mask-his expression was evidently changed to a nonchalant facade, his trembling lips curling into a small, twisted grin.

"Forgive me, my love. I did not mean to wake you,"he whispered, almost too afraid of speaking. She rushed to his aid and tried curling her arms around him to help him stand, but he recoiled, like a wounded animal, from her usually sought-after embrace.

"Do not trouble yourself, Christine. I am perfectly fine as you can see." He struggled to his feet and she could tell his teeth were clenched all the while.

"What happened? Can I do something, Erik?" She awkwardly stood in front of his hunched gaunt figure, while her looked around for his cape.

"Age happened, my dear. I am afraid I am not as young anymore, to my embarrassment. Last night's attack truly destroyed my back, you see."

Of course, that explained everything and there was no reason for alarm. Rest and a warm bath would eventually heal his tired bones. She always felt very strange, whenever Erik mentioned their large age difference, as if she was engaged to an old man. Christine never thought of him as old, considering the swiftness of his reflexes, smoothness of his every move and dry wit. To her, he was an extremely sassy and bright gentleman, who enjoyed pulling pranks and presenting mind games to his simple-minded fiancée.

"My love, you are living with an old man, let's simply admit it," he chuckled, reading her mind. "I am afraid I did not prepare anything for breakfast. Would you be so kind as to wait for your Erik to make something quick? Tea and some biscuits, maybe? With the strawberry jam you adore, of course." He brushed past her slowly, making his way to the kitchen.

Christine may not have been a genius, but could tell something was wrong. Erik never complained about age and was always ready to prove his cat-like stealthiness and agility.

Their day progressed without any more surprises, but the bug inside her brain remained. It was not so much his confession that morning, rather the way he conducted himself around the house. Constantly sweating, he floated around the house, like the ghost he claimed to be, as she observed him from the couch. Coming and going, momentarily disappearing into his bedroom, usually with a small wooden box in his hands. The thing that worried her the most? She could hear him. His feet dragged across the Persian rugs all over the house and he seemed unable to regain his former proud stature. She reminded herself to continued having her eyes and ears open, in case something happened. For the time being, she could do nothing more than finish her embroidery, a dreadful flower arrangement that was boring her to death.

"Could I help you?"she asked every so often, only to be greeted with denial and his ever-growing withdrawal.

She made tea and left it by his door numerous times a day. Sometimes she left him some food, keeping in mind to spice it heavily, just in case his...features made taste difficult. Not that she would know. Every night, before she went to bed, she would pass by his locked door and pick up the cold, untouched food. It'd been a week and she rarely saw him, knowing he had not eaten throughout the day. How could a grown man of his stature even survive such starvation?

Trying to care for Erik behind the mahogany door was a challenging feat on its own, but it wasn't as if she was not battling her inner troubles. The bruises were still fading and her wrist clicked whenever she tried to move it, reminding her of the night that still haunted her thoughts whenever she dared to close her eyes. Laudanum, a medication she previously despised for its bitterness and the sickly drowsiness it caused, had now become her best friend, easing her to sleep almost every night.

During one rare evening, when Erik had come out of hiding, she decided to retire earlier than usual. With one eye on the newspaper and the other on her, he realised her regular use of the opioid. Putting the large paper down, he leaned forward to support his arms on his knees and looked at her, an expression she had never before seen in his glowing yellow eyes. Was it...disappointment?

"My love," he started with a deep breath, "can you not sleep?"

She paused. He seemed too weary to be burdened with her insomnia. But she had never managed to lie to him. "No. I've restless lately."

He nodded. "Since the...attack, I presume?"

"Yes-but there is no reason for you to worry, with a little laudanum I sleep like a baby. It's not like I will have insomnia forever." She forced an awkward laugh and averted her gaze from the seriousness of his own.

"Christine, I hope you realise laudanum is no sugar water."

"Of course, I know," she stood to pick up the tea set from the table, "I'll take it only as long as I need it."

"That is my point exactly," he grabbed her arms as she passed by him towards the kitchen, demanding her attention, "the longer you take it, the more you need it. It is a highly addictive drug, my sweet. I'm afraid you'll have to sacrifice a few nights' sleep to avoid becoming an addict."

She stopped and set the tray on the armrest. "Oh."

"Yes, well..."he was uncomfortable by her silence. "Try not to use it too often."

"Alright, yes. No, I won't use it again. Thank you for helping me, Erik, I didn't realise."

He faintly rubbed her arm in an attempt to soothe her. "Of course, my love. Off to bed now." She took the tray again. "Leave it that to me. Goodnight."

"Oh, are you sure? I can do it...I mean it's not-"

"Yes, get some sleep."

"Alright, thank you. Goodnight, Erik."


	4. Chapter 4

She felt a hand grab her roughly and shove her against something hard and cold. Harsh, incoherent words were thrown at her face and she tried turning away from the threatening shadow. She writhed and managed to escape the stone heavy weight of her attacker. She ran and ran, until she had reached her bedroom and hid underneath her fluffy covers. Again, a weight on top of her, across her whole body. But that was not the same as before. This time, whatever was holding her down was bone thin and she could feel sharp bones against her own, despite the fabrics separating them.

Surprisingly, the previous fear was gone, replaced by numbing serenity. She dared not move, yet tried to slowly avoid a body insistently pulling her against it. She shyly opened her eyes, almost hoping to see a familiar face above her. Her stomach dropped when she was greeted only with darkness, despite that invisible stranger keeping her trapped. Then, the instant she could have sworn she was alone, two flames appeared at the height of her eyes. These were no common balls of fire; they were orbs, eyes one could hardly call human. Their stare silenced her and her own blue eyes were glued, unblinking to that hellish pair of eyes, full of pain and desire.

She snapped out of her daze. A dream, only a dream, no need to panic. Yet she could hear her heart in her head felt her throat close up as she gasped for air. The lack of sleep was affecting what little rest was left for her. The room was too warm, even for her liking, and the lamp's faint yellow light crated shadows on the pale walls around her.

She sighed in defeat. A shy little toe touched the floor, quickly followed by nine others, making their way down the dark corridor like a cat on a hot tin roof. The parlour was much better than the twisted decor of the deeper rooms in the house by the lake and the couch too comfortable for her exhausted body. Rearranging the pillows, her eyelids were already getting heavier as she let herself go, hoping for no more twisted nightmares.

The sound of something heavy hitting the floor dragged her back to reality, a couple of not-so-polite words escaping her lips. Now there was coughing, intense and painful to listen to. What was going on? Why hadn't Erik heard all that noise?

Erik! Her mind finally started turning. Was he alright? She rushed to his door in her undergarments, but paused, her hand resting on the brass heavy handle of his door. She was not to go in there again, he had made her promise. It was an emergency! He would be so angry at her for evading his space again, especially when he never dared open her door without permission.

Even when she screamed and cursed and insulted him, only he did was stand behind the wood and try to calm her strained nerves in whatever way he knew.

"Don't cry my angel. Erik cannot bare to hear his love cry,"was his most used phrase.

She quickly decided that was not the time for civility. He never asked for help, not even if he desperately needed it, Knowing it would be locked, she tugged at the handle and, surprisingly, the thick door opened.

Nothing could have prepared her for the sight before her eyes.

He was on the floor, with his back against the wall, looking thinner than before, if that was even possible. His raven hair had overgrown and now fell, sticking on his wet forehead, or what remained uncovered from the mask, that is. Her gaze left his face and focused on his chest; his shirt was open and drenched in sweat, partly concealing a bleeding gaping wound on his left side.

His masterful hands were trembling as he pushed a needle in his vein. Next to him, the infamous wooden box lay open, containing another syringe and a bottle of clear liquid, both of which shone disgustingly under the dim light. She gasped and quickly covered her mouth in shame.

He paused, needle still in his arms, and looked at her tiredly.

"Ah, yes," he simply muttered. "What are you doing in this ungodly hour?" His attention returned to the syringe as he slowly pulled it out and set it back in its container.

"I...a nightmare. Erik, what are you doing?"she could feel the tears well in her eyes and she fought not to let them spill. He seemed to be terrified of her crying.

He huffed and lay back further into the wall, putting his hands on his lap, eyes to the ceiling. The veins and bruises on his arms told her exactly what he was doing. She'd seen it before.

"It's morphine," he finally whispered. He pointed at his bleeding flesh. "Hurts like hell."

She gingerly walked and sat near him, but not at an arm's length. She didn't want to touch him after what she had witnessed. "You're bleeding," she stated and was surprised by her own calmness.

"I know."

"How did this happen?"

"It was an accident. Go back to bed, my dear. I'll clean this mess and make sure we don't have to worry about it any longer," he tried to stand and quickly realised that was not going to happen, so he gave up trying.

"How can I help?"

"By going to sleep,"he snapped with what little force was left in his emaciated lungs. He was pushing her away again. He'd been bleeding all week and she knew nothing.

"Let me help,"she tried once more.

"I don't want your help!"he shouted, but immediately regretted it. "I am sorry, Christine. Don't worry, it's nothing I can't handle."

She got on her knees, trying her best to look as authoritative as she could. "I'm not leaving you," a lump was slowly forming in her throat, making it difficult to swallow.

"Yes, you are. You are upset." He coughed hardly, hiding his face in his sleeve. That went on for almost a whole minute and she could do nothing but watch his thin back, with bones sticking out, shake in agony.

She remembered someone else coughing like that. Her father had a disease of the lungs, which took him from her. And she was not letting Erik abandon her too. When he was calm once again, she set a comforting hand on his shoulder, since he didn't have the power to protest.

"Please, Christine. Please go,"his voice was the last straw. She burst into uncontrollable tears, leaving him shocked.

"I can't lose you, too, Erik! You can't..." she gasped for air and kept on balling. "You can't do this to me!"

His freezing hand caught hers. "Christine, listen-"

"No! You listen! You are not dying on me!"

He could swear those words were forged on his soul.

"What do you want me to do?" He finally asked.

"Don't leave me!" In her fit, she had clung onto him in desperate need.

His own eyes were shining, but he could not afford breaking down with her. Someone had to remain calm in that goddamn house. "I won't, my love. I won't."

That seemed to calm her and she was now sobbing quietly on his chest, as he rubbed her back. When she was finally herself, he rubbed her tears from her cheeks and she lay her face in his wide palm, closing her eyes for a shadow of a moment. Of course, he understood.

"Ah, great. There goes another shirt ruined," he stated comically and she choked in her tears. "No, don't laugh. I liked that shirt, it was expensive!"

She smiled weakly, before her eyes trailed down to see what he was referring to. He saw colour drain from her cheeks. The white shirt was soaked in blood. The pressure she had applied as she held him must have made the wound worse. Her stomach was rising to her throat.

"Tell me what to do."

He sighed and turned to look at her.

"Very well. Can you stitch?"


	5. Chapter 5

_"Very well. Can you stitch?"_

She was not ready to hear that.

"I...I think so? I've never done it before."

He nodded. "There's a bottle of brandy in the kitchen. Bring along a couple of towels as well."

Without a question, she followed his orders, rushing to find everything he had asked for. When she returned, he had managed to grab the medical supplies from a nearby drawer. The needles shove under the light and her head spun. Air was scarce in the room.

She handed him the towels, watching as he soaked them both in the alcohol. With the cloth in his hands, he moved towards her face and she momentarily panicked.

"It'll stop the nausea, my dear. It will help you."

She tried to fight the urge to rip it off as he tied the towel around her mouth and nose. Only the smell and she could swear feeling drunk.

Now, down to business. Too afraid to hurt him, she lifted the shirt from the wound. She tried looking for a place to start, a point deeper than the others, but all was a blur; scarlet, torn flesh, a spark of white peeking from deep down where she could tell was his rib.

"That's...it's too dangerous, Erik. I will hurt you."

He laughed bitterly.

"My sweet, I swear there is little damage you could do," he breathed deeply. "I would...do it myself...but I can't reach it. I tried." He coughed harshly again.

This vulnerability created a strong urge in her to protect him at all cost. She felt almost heroic and wore her brave face as she pierced the needle through the deepest layer of skin. The texture...thick, soft flesh, surrounded by dry thin skin, ready to tear more. The iron smell of blood on her hands...she gagged and shook.

A firm hand wrapped around her waist, as if to support her. She looked up; his jaw was clenched, his eyes betrayed agony, yet he did not mouth a word.

"Erik..."she whimpered.

"Go on," he rasped.

And so she did. It took them almost an hour and when it was finally over, they both exhaled in relief. He ran a hand through his wet hair and she tore the cloth from her face. He tried to sit up.

"Don't move," she ordered, earning a curious look from the menacing phantom. "You are my responsibility. Sit down and let me do it."

He simply raised an eyebrow and did not protest, even though she could see a pained grin creeping onto his thin lips.

Surprised by that air of newfound confidence, she showered him with affection and care. Walking to his wardrobe, her cheeks turned crimson as she ran through his clothes; his suits and ties and shirts were hanging in front of her and choosing his shirt felt oddly intimate.

_You're imagining things, stop it and focus,_ she reprimanded herself.

Kneeling beside him on the floor, she ran her hands under his wet shirt, feeling him freeze under her touch. She indulged in this new feeling; his skin was soft and, despite being able to touch his bones, she craved the contact. It was only then that she realised he was burning up. Her hands swiftly took off his shirt, leaving him exposed to her innocent eyes. She tried not to think of the endless scars all around his body, but involuntarily caught a glimpse of something marked on his right shoulder blade; a small tattoo.

"What is that?" She smiled.

"What? Oh, that. A souvenir from my days in Tehran," he took another sip from the now nearly empty bottle.

"What does it say?"

"فرشته مرگ", he said in the oriental language.

"Yes, thank you, Erik. Truly an enlightening revelation," she laughed coyly.

He smiled weakly. "It simply states my position in the court, nothing more."

"Which was?" She continued dressing him, wrapping the fresh, crisp shirt around his frail figure and patting dry the beads of sweat emerging from his forehead.

"Consultant to the Shah, of sorts. And head of the Court's mercenary army," he answered simply as he helped her with the buttons of his shirt. The cool fabric soothed his aching body and he breathed in, wanting to savour the feeling while it lasted.

"Oh,"she breathed, "does that mean you participated in...missions?"

"My dear, you know I am no saint." He slowly rose from the floor, a growl emerging from his chest. "But do not tire your little mind. That belongs to a past I'd rather forget."

She knew he never spoke of his past. Now, he was exhausted, bleeding from a gaping hole on his side, and she wouldn't like to make him sicker, so she silenced herself and dressed his thin form with the rest of the clothing in silence. She also didn't ask what he would be doing for the rest of the evening; usually, she fell asleep to a soft piano tune or a violin lullaby, but now his hands trembled and she had seen the frustration whenever he tried to play anything in the last few days. A book, perhaps, would keep him better company.

Her mind was gone only for mere seconds, but when her eyes landed again on Erik, something in her protested violently. He was slowly trying to make his way to that thing he called a bed-she couldn't even bring herself to name it-already ignoring her presence. His little feat, however, was interrupted when a small ivory hand curled aroung his forearm, with a determination he had never thought possible.

"What is it, my dear?" he whispered in fatigue and a hint of annoyance.

"There is no way I'm letting you sleep in there."

He shrugged. "Then perhaps you'd prefer it if I slept on the floor."

"Erik." She tried to keep eye contact and steady her voice. Putting a strong headed child to bed was incredibly nerve-wracking. But she was learning.

"Very well," he sighed. "Where will you have me sleep?"

She swallowed. "In the Louis-Philippe room."

His eyes closed momentarily, just as he was about to come up with a sarcastic answer, but he froze in an almost comical pose, before his features destorted in a grimace of utter disgust.

"I will not sully your bed."

Her head spun at the realisation. She thought they were over this, but clearly she was wrong.

"That's nonsense, Erik."

His eyes were now sad, raher than angry. She knew what shame looked like on him.

"Christine, I must insist."

"That makes two of us."

He was succumbing little by little. She sat next to him in an effort to make him understand.

"Erik, look," she started, "whenever I am sick, you care for me. Now, please, let me care for you. In the best way I can."

He tried to move away from her soft touch, it burned him.

"I know I don't have any gypsy remedies,' she continued. "Or healing secrets. But when I say I want to help you, I mean it. Even if it means having to force-feed you chicken soup," she smiled at the thought and he returned the feeling with a weak chuckle.

"Alright, doctor, you win. But it's only for tonight." He turned and she wrapped his arm aroung her shoulders for support.

He was so thin, it almost frightened her as she acted as his crutch. She knew that before, of curse, but now that he leaned on her, the man almost a foot taller than her felt like nothing more than a very small child. She must be wrong, she thought, he wouldn't be alive if he did, in fact, weight so little. She could feel every muscle contract, every joint bend. The complicated mechanics of man at her disposal to feel.

She made him sit on the bed and he refused to lay in her presence. She did not pressure him. Instead, Christine was content to undo the bed for him and turn on the radiator of the room. December was unforgiving in the cellars and she would not have Erik's fever worsen.

"There," she mouthed, getting everything ready, "please try to sleep tonight. Goodnight, Erik." She slowly turned the gas lights off as she stood by the door.

"Goodnight, my angel," his sweet voice echoed in the dark.

Relieved to see him calm after a week in agony, she quickly found herself at the corridor, standing face to face with Fuseli's famous_ Nightmare_. Whether it was an original or not, she had never bothered to wonder. Αll she knew was that, despite the mastery that breathed some beauty into the terrifying scene, the painting was repulsive and more often than not, she had had nightmares after pondering on its image too long in the late hours.

Disgusted and consciously wanting to avoid a sleepless night, she averted her gaze from the eyes of the demon tha seemed to pierce her skull and rushed to the drawing room, where the decorum was milder.

It was only then that the realisation that she had nowhere to sleep for the night hit her. Trying to lay on her side on the couch proved exceptionally uncomfortable, since her large dress, which she had not previously remembered to remove, took up most of the space. Displeased with her situation she sat on the floor, throwing a lonely silent tantrum that was followed with another silent laugh, when she realised how childish her image may be.

As she observed the gloomy house for an adequate place, her eyes fell on the half-opened door of the library, where a soft light glazed the frame. Christine rarely ever went in there, since Erik had enough books in the bookcases of the living room.

In truth, the library served no other purpose than the obvious; all four walls were covered, from the floor to the ceiling, with bookcases, where books of various languages and genres were carefully placed. A simple chandelier was illuminating the space, which took a bizarre hue, due to the colourful spines of the books serving as the wallpaper. Next to the fireplace-a dangerous addition to a room full of paper- was a long plush loveseat that semmed to be calling her name.

Finally laying down, she enjoyed the way the pillows gave in effortlessly, making more room for her large gown, without knocking her to the wooden floor. Once she relaxed her muscles, her eyes opened lazily to take one last look at the room around her, settling on a strange face looking at her from across the room; her own image, inside an ornate frame that rested on the empty space of a shelf. Then she remembered it was the portrait Monsieur Cabanel had made of her as Pandore a couple of years ago. Quite a revealing drawing, in her opinion. She blushed at the memory.

_ The famous painter had aproached her after a performance and showed her some early pencil drafts of the piece._

_"They are beautiful, monsieur. But, I must ask, why are you showing them to me?" she had asked innocently and he had smiled under his thick mustache._

_"Why, mademoiselle, it is your visage I wish to draw as Pandora's. If you would do me such an honor."_

_ She was shocked at the suggestion of posing for a portrait so bold, yet was encouraged when her Angel gleefully agreed to the prospect. She hadn't yet met Erik, only through her mirror, only as a Voice._

_"Your divine beauty should not pass into oblivion, my dear,"he had said. "And Cabanel is one who can do it justice."_

_ With her Angel's and Mama Valerius's approval, she agreed to meet monsieur Cabanel at his studio, where he treated her with nothing less than total respect and professionalism, despite the loose shawl covering her pale body, leaving too little to the imagination._

She smiled. At the time, she heard a rich aristocrat had bought the painting for a golden price to add to his collection, giving more than the artist's original fee. She had shared only a very small part of said payment and refused anything more, thinking it was her honor to pose for a legendary artist. However, the thought of a rich man paying so much and having her face on his wall would make her blush for a long time afterwards, until the event was forgotten. She had wanted to come in contact with the buyer and thank him personally, but no one, not even Cabanel, knew who he actually was. The offer was placed anonymously and was accepted as the highest bidding.

_The devil!_ He had never mentioned anything about him buying it. And, truth be told, she found it sweet that he had it, concealed in such a way in his favourite room, where he could see it everyday. It felt almost sacred, posed next to his million-times-read volume of _Paradise Lost_. She made a mental note to talk to him about it in the morning, recognising she would most likely have forgotten by then.

* * *

A/N: Thanks for reading! Please review to tell me your opinion or suggest something for a future chapter, it makes me really happy!


	6. Chapter 6

When she finally woke up, the smell of wood and smoke surrounded and numbed her, the pillows soft against her aching back. Out of habit, she checked her wounds, which had thankfully started to fade in the past few days. Now, her wrist did not click anymore and the bruise on her jaw had disappeared, meaning today was the day she could finally return to rehearsals and pretend nothing had ever happened. Then, of course, there was Erik to tend to, but he was a big boy and could probably manage without her for a few hours. She could even buy him something when she'd get out, like some medicine or the dark tea he liked so much, the only one he drank besides that weird russian one.

With a big breath, she stood up and tidied her skirts, makng a mental note to change before daring to set foot in the theatre. The folds at the back were crinckled, the bow was no longer visible and her pockets needed a good press to stay concealed under the fabric. As she ran her hand through them, she caught a folded piece of paper whose existence she had forgotten all about; it was Raoul's address, should she ever need him.

_"Any time of the day, Christine. Do not hesitate."_

And he had proceeded saying how he could not wait for her to return to her normal home, where he could visit her and finally court her like a noble woman. The girl had taken care to remind him that she was far from being a noble woman and that if his brother heard him say such things, he would kill him. She knew someone else who would gladly kill him if he heard, but chose to keep that information to herself. Besides, she had no intention of responding to any form of Raoul's flattering, since she had given her word to another man, whom she could not betray. The young Vicompte, however, insisted Erik was a highly dangerous individual, who was keeping her from the world and whom she should run away from.

These were her thougts as she left the library on the way to her own room, anxious to see if the wound was any better. When the door opened, nothing seemed amiss, until a long mutter was heard from behind the untouchd bed. Peaking around it, she saw Erik kneeling next to it, his forehead against the mattress, speaking. Not himself, certainly not to her.

"Please...I can't bare it anymore..."were the first words she heard, before sitting down next to him.

Faces and years were mixed in this fever-fuelled narrative, but Christine tried to keep track of his rambling; his mother locked him in the attic, he broke a mirror on himself yet she did not care to look after her child. He ran away so she could be with a doctor she loved and his dog was killed.

"Sasha!" he shouted softly. "It should have been me, Sasha!"

She did not know who Sasha was, but then he said something about a raven-haired girl who fell to her death because of him, so she assumed that must have been her. Those were his last words in French, before he started switching between what seemed to be a hundred different languages. From what little she knew because of her career, she recognised italian and german, but the rest remained a mystery.

Christine had almost allowed herself to be swept away by this strange narrative of this strange man's life, when his back started to tremble and hot tears streamed down his still closed eyes. His hands turned to white fists by his side and he now shouted in despair, pain she could not understand. Terrified by this blind outburst, she shyly lay a hand on his shoulder and whispered his name.

He froze, slowly opening his eyes, turning to look at her like a caged animal watches the onloookers.

"Breathe," she cooed.

A trembling hand rested on hers and for the first time in forever, it was warmer than her own. Which meant his fever had gone up again.

His yellow eyes glimmered with tears. "My Christine..." her name faded on his lips, as if it pained him to rasp.

"I'm here now," was all the consolation she could offer.

Suddenly, he drew away from her touch, trying weakly to regain his usual posture, and she tried to help him up, choosing to remain silent. When they had reached the door, he pushed her away again and he hurriedly made his way towards the bathroom, coughing and clutching his side.

Hearing his heaving behind the door, she spared him one last piece of dignity and left him alone.

While he was locked up in her bathroom, she occupied herself with the making of ginger tea, even if she doubted how much it could help his condition. It wasn't the pain that worried her; the man was stabbed in the ribs, it was normal to double over in agony for a long time. But the coughing? The nausea? How could those symptoms be related to his injury?

His calm demeanor eased her worries to a certain degree, since she knew that Erik was conditioned to survive, due to his dark history. If there was a problem graver than the obvious, he would lose no time treating it. Which meant that, for now, at least, there was no reason to worry.

Without needing to turn around, she sensed his presence in the kitchen, before finally seeing him next to her with the corner of her eye. With hands that trembled, he grabbed the healing root from the counter and started cutting it up, but the knife slipped from his fingers. He didn't nag, he didn't swear. He simply tried hypotonically to steady his hand, like an old man who has accepted his illness.

"Let me do it," she offered softly, passing one arm around his waist, while the other slipped over for the knife.

Her sugary intimacy that all of a sudden laced her every move towards him was sickening. He didn't want her to see him like that, helpless, didn't want her pity. He resented the world's false kindness, because it was always accompanied by one reassuring yet cynical thought:_Poor chap. Thank God that's not me._ Survival had made him beg for mankind's compassion in the past, but he could not stand hers. He had finally come to terms with the idea that he could never win her love, but he would not replace it with her pity.

"I can do it," he replied, perhaps more cruel than intended. "Take the rest inside."

"You'll cut yourself-"

"I said I'll do it!" Christine shrank back at his thundering voice, always terrified by his violent and uncontrollable outbursts. "Forgive me," he said quickly, but she had already disappeared in the parlor.

When at last they were both sat down in their usual spots, Christine tried to lighten him up a little by initiating some small talk. She was a passionate believer of the view that psychology was extremelly important in the recovery of patients, so now she was set to playing the sister of mercy for the wounded phantom.

"Erik?" she muttered through the steam of her scorching tea.

"Hm?" was his interesting reply, as his gaze remained glued on some sheet music from _Il Trovatore_. "I want to work you a little more over the meters 21 to 30 before your premiere."

"Yes, alright, you get better and we'll see."

"That has nothing to do with it. You will prepare as if nothing's wrong, even if I have to conduct you from my deathbed," he laughed with himself at the macabre visual.

"Don't talk like that, please," she said, staring miserably at her mug.

With no further comment, he shrugged and changed the subject. "You were saying?"

"What?" Her mind froze for an instant. "Ah, yes. I was just wondering...have you ever tried anything you can't do? Because, I don't think such a thing exists," she smiled at the prospect.

He reciprocated the feeling with a weak smile. "Yes, actually. I cannot whistle to save my life. Don't laugh, I'm serious! Must be due to my lack of properly shaped lips."

So there's something she could do, that he couldn't. "I know how. Papa taught me when I was small," she declared proudly.

He sighed dramatically for effect. "I know. It's intolerable."

Despite his bitter comment, her laughter grew and his heart clenched with a peculiar feeling, anyone else would recognise as joy, even love.

"You're terrible, do you know that?" She pushed her lower lip outward, and every force in the universe had to restrain him from leaning in and kissing it.

"I'm inexcusable, as you point out ceaselessly," he grinned and continued sipping his tea.

Christine took advantage of the serenity to spend some time inside her head, without worries burdening her. She even remembered one time that a circus had come to town and their tent smelled beautifully, like ginger.

_Their new director didn't need the soloists that morning, but for a quick runthrough of the last scene's blocking. So, Christine was finished with her rehearsal before noon and had quite a few hours to kill before having to go back to the house by the Lake for dinner._

_The first snow of the winter was falling plush and the white Paris was like a painting come alive. It'd been days since she had last seen the sky, a slight cold had Erik paranoid over her voice and he had her restrained in bed for four days in utter silence. Now, the freezing wind felt good, the oxygen waking her up from the drowsiness the heat down there, in the house, caused._

_Traversing the Tuileries, she observed some children having snowball fights and others making fat snowmen, with carrots as noses. The liveliness had cheered her so, that she didn't even frown when a tiny boy, no more than three years old, grabbed onto her with his chubby little hands, getting dirt all over her crisp white dress. Instead she laughed and took him in her arms, until his mother approached her, apologising for the mess. She gleefully explained that it was no trouble, really, and passed the child into his mama's arms, who reprimanded him playfully, pinching his round red nose._

_ Leaving this tender image behind her, she wondered if she would ever have her own children one day. Judging by the current state of her love life, however, the future seemed bleak._

_ Freed from her oppressing teacher, she indulged in some mischief and bought a few pastries from the tea shop around the corner. Every bite through the thick cream coated her throat and dulled her crystal clear vocal cords. With the eclair in one hand and the umbrella in the other, she entered a tent set up for Christmas,where a large crowd was gathering to watch all kinds of artists; magicians, contortionists and sword swallowers showcased their talents, earning the laughter and applause of the convives._

_ The spectacle lightened her already cheery mood, which was quickly weightened down once again, when she saw a girl that looked freakishly alike to her, calling her lover through the crowd. The young man embrassed her and she leaned into his arms, enjoying the sights._

_ The card trick that was being performed was familiar to her, since Erik had showed her how it was done just a few days back. She thought he would enjoy the performance, being naturally drawn to all things bizarre and clever. And so, she wondered, how it would be, just for once, to go out with him fearlessly, to walk across the Seine and laugh at the tricks of street magicians. Perhaps he would hold her, too, in his arms, and they could be a normal couple, if only for a moment._

"Penny for your thoughts, my sweet?" His voice interupted her daydream.

"Oh, it was nothing,"she replied, too shy to share her innocent fantasy.

"But why," he teased, "you're as flushed as a lovesick maiden."

His remark made her cheeks light up even worse. "Come now..."

"I'm just saying that the little princess is dreaming of her prince charming, while she's stuck here with the dragon of the fairytale." His tone was cruel, and Christine could sense where this was going.

"Erik, please..."she begged him.

"Why, my dear?"he snarled. "Is it wrong to admit that Christmas with the Vicompte would be better?"

"You're unfair."

"Am I?"

"You mentioned Raoul, I said nothing."

"But you were thinking about _him_." He was so sure of his deduction, she wanted to hit him.

"Erik, don't-"

Her sad outburst was interrupted by a violent spasm, caused by a sudden coughing fit. The scorching tea spilled onto his lap, but he continued panting for air in bewteen the coughs, worse than ever before.

"Let me help," she tried to support him, but he shoved her hands away.

"I don't want help!" He shouted amidst his spasms. "I don't need you!"

"I just want you to get better..." Why was she apologising, even if she'd done nothing wrong?

"Isn't it time for your rehearsal, _my dear_?" he rasped.

She'd rather he spit her. Never had he kicked her out of their home in such a way. Furious, but mostly hurt, she stood and rushed to the door, grabbng her coat.

"Why can't you see what's right in front of you?" she sobbed and banged the door behind her.

Another coughing fit echoed in the empty house, drowning between suppressed tears.


	7. Chapter 7

"You should probably get that checked out," he noted, stuffed inside the leather armchair by the fire, sipping his sherry, with the face turned towards the cherry-coloured stain on the shirt of his old friend. "And change a shirt, perhaps. You're quite a mess."

The said friend was sitting on the floor, with his back to the fireplace, trying very ambitiously to avoid those green eyes that were always there, whenever in the past he was in trouble. But the sherry was not enough, just gave him a useless headache and worsened his nausea.

"That was the last one. And I can't really play housewife right now," he began coughing again and curled up like an infant, tucking his head between his knees. Once he regained his composure, he finished whatever was left in the bottle of whiskey in his hand and felt as if he almost could see himself from the outside, in every detail.

His raven hair, the only feature he could be proud of, was greasy, unwashed for a week now, and dripping from sweat stuck on the small area of his forehead exposed by the mask. His shirt was sticking on him and was so damp it had become transparent, letting show all his scars life had so kindly gifted him. If someone were to lower their eyes beyond his chest, however, they would see gray being replaced by a mix of red and brown, beginning on his ribcage and ending right above his trousers.

"Is it an infection or a punctured lung?" asked the insufferable Persian, as if he were wandering about the weather. "I must admit I can't quite understand how you still made a mess up there, in this condition." He stood slowly, making the leather underneath his creek, the sound sending chills all over his exhausted friend's body.

"Does it say _doctor_ anywhere on my forehead?" he growled and it made him cough again. "I told you a hundred times, daroga, I had nothing to do with it." He sat up a little, trying to make himself more comfortable against the stone fireplace. "Besides," he continued, rubbing his thin hand, "I had more important things to do than terrorise brainless ballerinas, you see."

"You're not exactly above it," the daroga replied with a grin, as he examined the intricate wooden box resting on a bookshelf. "Given the circumstances, however, let's say I believe you."

"You just wait until I'm up again and you'll laugh no more. Leave that," he tensed when he saw exactly what the Persian was holding.

He had heard countless threats, ever since Erik was still a young lad in Persia, to even consider getting worried. Instead, he turned curiously and kneeled beside him, grabbing his arm and rolling his sleeves up.

"Shame on you,"he said, seeing the bruises along the whole arm, even on the veins between his fingers. He didn't mean to reprimand him, as if he were a child, but he was worried, as only a father could be. "You promised me you'd stop this bullshit."

The skeletal man laying on the floor chuckled softly, so that not even his chest would know and begin to scratch him again. "When you get stabbed, you come give me a morality show."

The truth was he didn't really ache anymore, since the morphine had him perpetually numb, if not high, save for when he coughed or threw up whatever his empty stomach could give. He was cold, though, so terribly cold...like he was aready dead. He trembled in his own home and the gas flame was too far for him to light up, still wet to the bone. He was exhausted, also, like he had been beaten up by the Shah's guards, and he knew how that felt. He was sleepless for a week, and whenever he dared to close his eyes, the all too familiar nightmares came to torture him again, including the aforementioned guards.

"Say you don't care about your skin," the Persian began again, "besides, morphine is one of the lightest you've ever done. But the girl? How can you ask her to deal with you like that? And you stop with the drinking. You're barely manageable sober. Don't let her come back and find you like this, she will be scared." He stood and hid the box in the pocket of his coat, before returning in his original spot.

"It's not the time for withdrawal, Nadir. And I don't see her coming back," he cracked his knuckles and tried to lean forward to grab another bottle from the coffee table.

"Yes, well-wait, what are you saying?" he answered, perhaps a little louder than intended. "What happened?"

Having grabbed a bottle of Vodka, from his time in Russia, and while trying to unscrew it, he shrinked at the loud noise. "Let's say I wasn't exactly charming these last few days." He tugged at the cap again and his hand slipped. He felt like crying. "Will you open it?" He stretched the bottle towards Nadir and shook so much it almost dropped.

"You need to stop drinking," he murmured, but obeyed nontheless his plea. "What did you say to her?"

"I was in_ pain_, daroga," he moaned and thre his head back, allowing the clear fire to slip down his throat. He couldn't tell if it tasted any different than the last one anymore, but it warmed him a little.

"Did you yell at her?" he insisted.

"I tried not to let her see me, but she wouldn't leave me alone. I was abrupt." He nestled next to the fireplace, the flame reflecting on his black mask.

"You're telling me she tried to help, you disappeared and, when you decided to come out, you swore at her?" The scene, despite its tragedy, seemed to him almost comical.

"You could say that," he shrugged and kept on drinking. "She wanted to be with the Viscount, and I simply let her."

"In Allah's name..."he grew more indignant with each word. "Are you set on driving the poor girl mad?" He drew a cigar from his silver tobacco case and started smoking, with eyes fixed on her portrait above the fire, asking himself how this _child_ had bared so much.

"Don't fret. Judging by the bleeding, you'll both be released from your duties before the year changes."

Nadir Khan was the chief of the persian police, even before he grew his first beard. He had watched and organised executions, mass murders. He himself had and had been tortured in many imaginative ways. He had buried a wife and child. And yet, this knot that now closed his breath had rarely bothered him in the past.

"I've caused much suffering in my forty-something years, Nadir. And still, if you'd ask me what I regret, only two things would cross my mind," his awesome voice was now a whisper, every breath felt like sandpaper.

"Which are?" He knew the answer. But, if he dared speak anymore, he wouldn't be abe to control himself. He couldn't even look at him. When he saved him, twenty years ago, from the reaper's teeth, he had thought it final.

"That I couldn't make her happy," he downed another sip, "and that I didn't save your son."

The Persian choked on his sherry. What had Reza have to do with it? "Don't do this to me, Erik, I beg you. Don't stir his soil, it took me years to let him go."

"He was a great boy," he continued, "a spitting image of Rukheeya. I robbed you of your son."

"Stop!" He hadn't exploded like this in years and for only a moment, he felt bad for attacking his helpless friend. "Shut up, do you hear me? Reza was sick! You told me so! He would die!"

He simply sat up, fighting the instinct to stand and the realisation that he couldn't. "Yes, he'd die. But I could have done more research, we could have tried some other medicine, I don't know. I've never again killed a child, daroga. His soul is too heavy."

What could a father say to the killer of his child? What to say, a father who agreed to its end? There was no room for manliness now, Nadir was burying his son again after twenty years. And this time, he would grieve appropriately.

"I mustn't tell you all this. Forgive me," he said finally, returning to his half finished vodka. "But you understand, there's no priest coming down here to take my confession. And the label of the catholic doesn't wash off, even from me."

"You are so cruel."

"I am. That's how I was brought up, don't grudge me." he unbuttoned his shirt, the blood and the sweat made him colder with every passing minute.

"I have to go," he whispered under his beard, and finished his sherry. "You pull yourself together."

He straightened the coat on his braod shoulders, looking forward to leave this damned hellhole and return to the rue Rivoli, where the crowd made him feel somewhat ordinary. The front door was unlocked, like he had left it when he'd arrived, a peculiar occurence for the house by the lake.

"Nadir?" He didn't want to answer, but it felt like ignoring a man's dying wish. "Do me a favor."

"What favor?" He turned and made sure his expression betrayed only annoyance.

He hesitated, like a child asking for a birthday present. "On Christmas day, she'll sing_ Il Trovatore_. My box will be reserved, as always. Go see her, maybe send a flower or two. I don't know if I can make it."

"As you wish."


	8. Chapter 8

Palais Garnier was bursting with life that morning, the main offices full of yelling artists and young first-year students. Christine had forgotten, having such troubles those last few days, but it was the day the casting lists of the summer season were being announced. And as if they weren't enough, it coinsighted with the lists for_ le conservatoire de dance et de musique_. Thus, rats and soloists crowded the space, as the girl tried to reach the front desk to sign attendance. Some younger girls had formed groups here and there, watching the older artists enter, who commented on the children in their turn, wondering which would be the next big hit. At the same time, last-minute chnges at the Christmas gala costumes had forced the seamstresses to abandon their usual floor and settle into Monsieur Remy's office, asking extensive details about the demands of the corps de ballet. Amongst the hustle and the bustle of the people, Cristine made out La Sorellli, who waved at her from afar in an annoyed manner, while trying to angrily negotiate with Monsieur Moncharmin about her contract's renewal. A few other ballerinas approached her, greeting her shyly, having recognised the famous Daae, who had stunned the world as Marguerite.

As she was walking towards her rehearsal room to begin her warm up with the rest of the cast, she heard a familiar voice calling her and turned, not wanting to seem rude towards the boy rushing up the grand staircase.

"Christine!" Shouted loudly in her face a flustered Raoul, with his tie sticking out of his vest. "It's been so long!"

"Raoul!" she exclaimed somewhat hesitantly, having yet to adapt to the rythm of the outside world, away from the cellars, the lake and the fallen angels. "What are you doing here?"

The young man regained his posture and his face straightened. "Christine, I've been coming here almost every day. It's you who's disappeared for the last three months. Are you alright?"

She started to walk back to the room, with the Vicompte following close behind her, trying to draw out information of her hiding place.

"Maman is very sick, Raoul. And I didn't disappear, I was here only a few days ago," she tried to excuse herself, but her answer did not satisfy him in the least.

"Madame Valerius is fine, Christine. It's her who told me your home has so long to see you. As for rehearsals, everyone I asked told me you appeared, did what you had to do with the new director and vanished into thin air once more. Please, listen to me-" He gently grabbed her arm to face her. "You don't have to lie to me."

The girl sighed, unsure of how helpful it would be to reveal the truth. For a moment, she longed for all this liveliness, the energy of everyone around her, the normalcy. No temper tantrums, nor tear-soaked confessions of undying love and looming deaths. Life, how she had missed it.

"I've only got ten minutes,"she said calmly, "let's go to the foyer." She pulled him discreetly away from the stares of those curious to catch a glimpse of the aristocrat and the diva's forbidden romance.

"Christine, I only want you to tell me this and then you may leave. Were you with him?" His voice was desperate, as if the hope of her denial was the only thing keeping him alive.

"Raoul, you need to understand-"

"Were you?" he insisted, stretching his hand on the table, in a manner Christine would have never expected.

"First,"the young woman started with a stern look, "you will adress me politely. You have no right to ask around about my personal life, let alone without my knowledge."

The boy was startled by her forwardness, still perceiving her as the naive girl he had met half-conscious inside her dressing room, not so long ago.

"Should you wish to know something, you will have to ask me. If you can't find me, you'll wait. Have I made myself clear?"

Raoul felt like a foolish schoolboy, who had dared to talk back to the teacher. Where was fragile Christine, whom he was fighting so hard to protect from the claws of that beast? "Crystal," he muttered shamefully.

"Very well, then. Yes, I was with him. No, he didn't force me to follow him, quite the opposite I would say, he did everything he could to send me away." Her voice was steady and firm, revealing no sentiment and offering only clear information.

"Then why did you stay?" His interrogation had begun to tire her and one look was enough to put him back to his place.

"We'll get to that. A while ago, someone attacked me on the street-I'm fine now, don't worry- and Erik put himself in the middle to defend me. The criminal injured him badly, so I had to stay and take care of him."

This whole scenario seemed drawn out of a fantasy novel, yet Raoul had to believe her, no matter to his mind's protests. "You mean to tell me you stayed to be the nurse of that monster?"

The adjectives he kept on using angered Christine, who chose, however, to remain calm, telling herself that everything he said was out of interest and worry. "You don't abandon someone who risks their life for you, Raoul."

His shoulders dropped. "I suppose you're right," he admited in defeat. "Now you'll go home, right?"

The question still troubled her, too, even if she hadn't managed to give a sufficient answer. "The situation is still a little strange. But, for now, I'll stay with Maman Valerius, most likely until the gala."

Raoul laughed. "Your perfectionist teacher will let you get on that stage without having first killed you in rehearsals?"

Christine did not return the sentiment, knowing that Raoul, like everyone who's never applied themselves intensively to art, could not understand the feeling of fainting from exhaustion after a good rehearsal, or the impact of Erik's 'irrational' demands. "He was determined to give me a lesson half-conscious, if that answers you question."

"I have to give it to him, though," Raoul said finally, "he is completely devoted to you."

The thought suddenly depressed her, reminding her she had abandonned him yelling, while he worried for her sake._ No,_ she told herself,_ I will not cower at his anger and let him get away with treating like this again. This time, he either swallows that ego of his and apologises, or I'm not going back._

"I have to go now," she said, putting on her cream coloured gloves.

"Do you want to join me for lunch?" her expression disappoited him, but he did not quit. "Or for a walk. Come on, Christine, only a stroll through the park, to see you a little?"

_We will go on Sunday strolls through the park_, a little voice whispered. A voice that terrifyingly resembled her angel.

"Why not,"she decided. "I need some fresh winter's air," she told him and disappeared quickly, blending into the crowd.

Raoul, of course, did not move an inch away from the opera house those three hours of rehearsal. He feared that if he left the building from his sight, it would vanish, swallowing his beloved with it.

At last, monsieur Remy, directeur de la danse, opened the doors of the practise hall, so artists, dancers and singers alike, were free to go. The little rats stole glances towards him, giggling with their girlfriends, feeling awkward for bumping onto such a handsome man of high society. The older female artists, even those who had previously expressed an interest towards him, when Philippe had introduced him to the theatre a while ago, had understood none of them had a chance with the younger De Chagny. So, they contented themselves to a dignified nod, before passing by him.

As if she were doing it on purpose, Christine remained last, conversing with another soprano the details of their duet. She had seen him, of course, but she wasn't yet ready to stay alone with him, and so she wasted mindlessly her friend's time.

"How was rehearsal?" he asked her when she approached, without any actual interest in the progression of the production itself. It wasn't as if he could understand any of this.

"It was alright," she answered softly, wearing her coat. "We open on Christmas Day and everyone's on edge. This production hasn't been presented anywhere in France for many years and we want to make a good impression."

"I'm sure everything will be fine,"he held the door, letting her out first, "where do you want to go?"

She kicked the first snow of her boots uncaringly and kept on walking straght ahead down rue Scribe. "I know a small pastry shop just behind the Tuilleries. We could sit there,if you'd like."

"Of course," he agreed. To be honest, he would agree to follow her even if she suggested to go to the catacombs. "Christine..."he began speaking, but she stopped and looked him in the eye.

"I know what you're about to say. I don't want you to worry about me, I know what I'm doing. Just give me some time to sort things out and we'll see."

Her tone was gentle, but one could sense she had no patience to apologize or explain her situation to him.

"I love you, Christine," he whispered desperately, trying for one last time to make her understand.

"Don't make it more difficult than it already is, Raoul, please."

Somehow they reached the tea shop she'd told him about and sat to the farthest table, opposite of the Louvre. After the'd ordered, they resumed their conversation, talking about things that admitedly, had nothing to do with reality. Specifically, Christine managed to distract him from the burning matter by asking about his family's vacation house in Bretagne. He got carried away and started describing scenes of bird hunting the previous summer, giving her the chance to think while he spoke.

Despite knowing she was doing nothing wrong, she felt like abandoning Erik to his fate, every minute she passed away from their home. However, she pushed herself not to succumb to the temptation of going back and to keep her dignity until the end. Erik had repeatedly insulted her in the past and she had brushed it aside, but this time, the matter was serious and she would not bend.

"-and the dogs ran away! Have you ever seen swans chasing hounds, Christine?" he exclaimed in excitement, finishing his story. " Do you remember the swans in our back yard?"

His question brought her back to reality. "...Yes, of course I remember, they were beautiful. I wish I could see them again."

Raoul caressed her shoulder tenderly and took a sip of his tea. "You could come with us in the spring. And when we're married, we'll go there every year, since you like it so much."

_When we're married..._ If she'd heard it two years ago, Christine would jump into his arms in bliss, but now...now everything had changed and the only thing she felt at the prospect was a terrible tightening in her stomach. She smiled tightly.

"Could we go?" she suggested. "It's starting to get dark and I want to see Maman before she goes to bed."

As they walked to her neighbourhood, Raoul, without looking at her, told her: "Can I ask you a question?"

His introduction made her bite her lip. "Of course."

"What is it that you do at his house, anyway?" Christine hesitated and Raoul understood how his question could be taken the wrong, inappropriate way. "I mean to say, how do you spend your time down there?"

"Doing nothing much," she relaxed, understanding. "Come to think of it, it's just like any other household. Without the windows," she laughed softly. "And so I do whatever I would in my own; if I want, I can cook something I craved, and sometimes Erik helps, too. He's a wonderful cook. Or I read one of his endless books, or knit. If he's not working, we may play chess or he may show me how to repeat one of his card tricks." She stopped to wrap her face with her sawl against the wind. "Of course, we have our lesson once a day, and if I'm not too tired, we sing together afterwards. And he let's me sleep in a lot." She took a long needed breath. "That's all."

This probably tedious description relaxed the Vicompte, who had spent many sleepless nights wondering how his beloved ingenue may pass her time in the arms of the beast. After all, Raoul could understand that he was nothing but a man, with nothing but manly, carnal desires, most certainly unfit for the angel he pretended to be. Christine, however, had always seemed rather oblivious to that dangerous fact, choosing to follow that deprived,_ deranged,_ stranger into the belly of the earth, without any contact with the outside world.

Before reaching their destination, he had concluded to leave Christine be, at least until she got back her clear mind and deal with her matters however she saw fit. It was the honest thing to do, and Raoul could not deprive her of her right to choose how she would live her life. Her happiness had come to mean more to him than seeing her stand next to him at the altar. The thought of the day he had dreamed of since he was fourteen never coming to life felt like a stab in his abdomen, but if it were to happen with a dead bride by his side, one who longed for another's touch whenever he lay his own hands on her, it'd better never come at all.

"Thank you for walking me, Raoul," her goodbyes were court and sweet, dragging him from his melancholy daydream back to the cold streets of Saint-Germain.

"It was a pleasure seeing you again, Christine,"he muttered huskily, his voice stale from the cold and his previous silence. "I hope it isn't as long to our next meeting."

The girl blushed at his comment and fiddled in her purse to find her keys, avoiding those inquisitive striking blue eyes she had fallen in love with so long ago. "Well there's the gala in a couple of days, is it not? I will see you then."

He thought about kissing her. About what could happen if he leaned in, right there and then, in the empty street, and locked his lips with her soft ones. Would she feel the same as she did ten years ago? Could life and sadness corrupt the strawberry taste of her plump lips? He hesitated; the same lips that may have been kissed by another. And when a strawberry touches a worm, the insect clings onto the forbidden fruit, taking away all of its sweetness, making it wither away in decay and filth. Perhaps the creature holding onto Christine was not much different, and her lips could now be cold with the chill of the grave the cadaver had instilled in her.

"Yes-yes, of course. We'll meet after the performance. Goodnight, Christine," he left her on the porch and disappeared slowly into the fog of the evening, as she watched, until the cloud of his warm breath could no longer be seen. She rubbed her brow with one gloved hand, a gesture she had only lately picked up.

The house was small, perhaps smaller than most aristocratic homes in Paris, where the rich could not afford to be caught without at least a chandelier in every room. Maman Valerius, nee Demantin, however, had retired from high society since her husband, Henry Valerius, had died of cancer. His death had scarred her, and, after almost fifty years of marriage, she was left alone in the world, living with the constant fear of developping a similar disease to rip her from life in the same agony. For this reason, all excess was cut away, even red meat wasn't allowed in her household more than once a week.

The warmth hit her like a comforting breeze, carrying away all the troubles the chilling cellars had put on her shoulders. Marie, the maid, soon noticed her, as she passed down the hall carrying the basket of clean laundry.

"Mademoiselle Christine! It's been too long!" she exclaimed in her usual cheerful manner, sharing the fondest memories with the timid girl only two years younger than her. "Madame has been waiting for you all this time! She's upstairs, in the bedroom, if you'd like to see her."

Christine took off her coat and kicked her boots in front of the crackling fire to melt the snow on them. "I'm so happy to see you, Marie. I hope I didn't miss out on too much."

"Too much? Christine, it's eight o'clock and she's asleep, how exciting do you think it gets?" she laughed, but was interrupted by a distinct cough from the top of the stairs.

"Not anymore, Marie. You'd better finish and go to bed as well," the short yet proud woman descended slowly, clutching the handrail, mindful of her step. "Christine, my darling, how good to see you!"

Once she reached the floor, Christine folded her in her arms, burrying her face in the familiar scent of lavender on her nightgown. Maman Valerius was the only mother she had ever known, or at least, the only one she could remember vividly. Her own mother, while so dear to her heart, had now become a distant memory, whose face had even started to fade from her mind. The details escaped her more and more every day, and, one moment she could still hear her laugh, the next she could not remember the colour of her hair. But Valerius was here, holding her, calling her daughter, even if she had already a daughter living in England.

"My beautiful girl! You've lost your colour, are you alright? Why did you leave for so long?" Her wrinkled hands caressed her porcelain face, taking the strands of unruly hair away. "Your hair's got thinner, too."

Christine closed her eyes and allowed herself to relax at the tenderness of the moment. "I haven't been sleeping very well, maman, that's all. A friend needed me and I wanted to stay with him."

"Your angel is in trouble, then?" The woman joked, unknowing of how true her words were.

"Not an angel, maman. We've discussed this," she corrected, no longer wishing to remember how he had taken advantage of the only thing linking her with her father.

"Of course, my dear, you're right. No angel, only your friend. But do tell me this, child, what is he really to you? Because monsieur le Vicompte has been coming every day looking for you and I didn't know what to tell him. It isn't proper for a gentleman to bother a lady already courted by another."

They were now sitting on the couch, still in each other's arms, trying to make up for the time they had spent apart. While rubbing Christine's little hands, Maman Valerius noticed a single gold band around her finger. Around the finger which was to remain bare until a girl was seriously considering walking down the aisle.

"I see," she said simply. "That means I'm going to have to cook dinner very soon. Does he like roast beef?"

Her daughter blushed at the suggestion, imagining the imposing Erik fidgeting around in her bright house, while hunching to avoid hitting his head at the low ceiling. Then her eyes landed on the old upright piano, on which she had practised the first sheet music he had ever given her. He would be terrible about dinner, Maman would have to force-feed him, but then he'd sit at the piano and lift the house off its foundations.

It was only then she remembered the small token she had taken fron the house by the lake. "Oh, I almost forgot," she pulled a small pouch from her pursue, filled with dark leaves. "It's a gift from Erik. His favorite russian tea, very bitter if you ask me. But he says it would help soothe your migraines," she placed it on the lap of her guardian, allowing her to inspect it.

"You spend your time talking to your fiance about my migraines, my love? No wonder you've had no luck with men before! Thank him on my behalf, it's very generous of him," she smiled, placing the pouch on the armrest behind her.

"Maman! Anyway, I will tell him. But if you must know, Erik is not like other men."

The older woman sat back, with the confidence of experience. "They never are, are they?"

Christine raised a cocky eyebrow and grinned questioningly. "Whatever you mean by that?

"The men we end up marrying. To every woman, her man is different, but in reality they're all men in the end. At the root, the same," she explained, as if it were a widely known fact.

The blond eyebrow went further up her forehead in disapproval, as her grin twisted into a mocking snarl.

"I see we've been picking up habits," maman noticed. "'You two need to spend sometime away from each other, or you'll have been bored to death until the wedding. Keeps the fire alive, as they say."

Christine smiled, the first real one in God knows how long. "And what do you say?"

Maman laughed loudly at the memory, before even recounting it to her daughter. "My sweet, from the day I met Henry, the only piece of clothing that touched me was my wedding dress a month later. I've been in his house the entire time." She paused, enjoying the shocked expression on Christine's delicate face. "Disgusting picture for a seventy year old woman, I know. But I was sixteen back then."

She shook her head, trying to forget the traumatic image. "I thought he was still in school when you two met."

"Of course he was," she reminisced. "My little chemist would come home from the university, still wearing his reading glasses, all rough from work, and I'd be waiting for him. His work was the only mistress I had to fear."

Christine smiled, remembering how young they both had looked at the portrait of their wedding day. "Erik shares less than half of what he does with me. And I understand even less, which is frustrating."

The woman stood, eager to hear more, but too tired to stay awake any longer. Her daughter understood and walked with her to her bedroom door.

"It takes a lot of time to find your balance. There are no picture perfect marriages, no matter what everyone says. Don't worry too much, my love, you'll get wrinkles like me. Sweet dreams."

She kissed her forehead and went to bed.

* * *

Sorry this upload took so long! Just to clarify, because someone asked me a while ago, Erik's tattoo is supposed to mean _Angel of Death,_ in case anyone's wondering. Also, should I finish this story or has it gotten boring? There's still quite a lot of chapters ahead.


	9. Chapter 9

Does anyone even read this story anymore?

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A bizarre light hit her eyes through the closed eyelids, and she wondered, annoyed, why on earth would Erik shine a light stright on her face, even though she was still asleep. Turning around to reprimand him, she stretched her arm out of the covers, feeling the cold atmosphere of the room come in touch with her skin. Had the heater broken down again?

"Erik..."she moaned sleepily, "the heat's off again..."

With a grunt she stretched, and reluctantly opened her eyes, but it was not her room underneath the opera house that she saw, instead her old bedroom at Maman Valerius's house. The same she's been living in since she was thirteen. Strange how accustomed she had grown to her environment underneath the earth, where no light or life could reach. It was only then that she remembered the reason why she wasn't back home, and her anger, as well as her worry, immediately returned.

Was Erik alright? She'd been gone for so long, leaving him in a really bad state, his injuries becoming worse. Perhaps she could go back today, just to see how he was doing. She realised then that it was Christmas Eve and that she had left him alone, the guilt suddenly seizing her neck. It was too early for all these feelings and, instead of dealing with them, she decided to go out, while the crowds still weren't too large, to buy a few last minute supplies and decorations.

Changing quikly into her day clothes, she flew down the stairs, grabbing her coat from the hanger next to the front door. Madame Valerius caught a glimpse of her adoptive daughter from the kitchen, but her flushed cheeks and swift movements told her not to disturb her.

It was snowing! How she adored fresh snow! The plush white surface that had yet to be stepped upon covering the entire neighbourhood under a thick blanket, as she walked at the side of the street, trying too hard not to ruin the perfect scenery by stepping into it. Soon enough, she reached a central road, where a cab picked her up towards the Centre-Ville. Outside the window, some shoppers walked careful of slipping, along with sparse groups of carolers, who ran from door to door singing their merry childish melodies.

Back in Sweden, before mama died, her parents would dress her as Santa Lucia, adorning her blond curls with a wreath of candles and bay leaves, the soft glow illuminating her as she stepped down the isle of their church, resembling a real angel, in her plain white dress. When Elvira, her mother, left the world, Gustave took his toddler and fled the town, the memories becoming too much to bear. They relocated in Uppsala, until their money ran out and they had to start living in the fields, like musical elves, roaming about in Scandinavia.

Her daydream was interrupted when the carriage stopped ubruptly, despite not having reached its destination.

"Do you mind another passenger, mademoiselle?" The driver asked leaning over to the side of the carriage. How would she say no when he asked her in such a way?

"Not at all, Monsieur!" she shouted enough to be heard.

She gathered her skirts to make room for the stranger, when a certain blond head entered the cabin. "Raoul?" she inquired, surprised at the sight of her friend, still feeling somewhat awkward after their last conversation.

The boy looked up, obviously not having seen her until that point. "Christine? Small world!" He was holding a quaint bouquet of pink roses in one hand and his tophat in the other. "I just bought these for you. I was planning to visit you at home and give them to you later in the day," he extended the flowers towards her, giving her a sincere, beautiful smile, full of adoration, "Merry Christmas Christine! Well, Christmas Eve- I thought-"he blushed in embarassement, realising his mistake.

"They're beautiful, Raoul," she accepted them, her voice soft, like he remembered her from their childood. "Merry Christmas."

Casual conversation filled the carriage until they reached Hotel de Ville, when Raoul insisted to pay for the ride, with Christine eventually caving in and allowing him to pay her fee as well. A crossed kiss and an embrace later, they parted ways, and Christine continued her way to the shops, wrapping the bouquet in her shawl to protect it from the bitter cold.

"Maman! I'm back! I bought a Bûche de Noël!" She let her coat slide off her shoulders and onto the couch, before rushing to the kitchen to find the old woman and the maid sorting through what seemed to be an array of presents.

Without a word, Maman sat up to look at her, raising her white eyebrow in the witty manner Christine recognised and loved in her. With a nod of her head, Marie came forward and presented her a large box. At the strange expression of her guardian, Christine extended her arm, showing the bouquet of pink roses.

"I met Raoul in town and he bought me some flowers for the holidays," she started awkwardly, "Aren't they beautiful?"

The maid took the bouquet and set them in a nearby vase, along with a few older lillies.

"My dear, are you sure the Vicompte only gave you some flowers?" Maman Valerius was a clever woman, and her smile hinted at something far greater than roses. "A present has been sent for you." She stepped aside and finally showed her.

It was a large dark blue box, almost as tall as Christine herself, with an inscription on the top she had to read to believe:_ House Of Worth._

"Worth dresses only Empresses, my Christine!" The old woman exclaimed, finally letting all of her bottled excitement free. "Monsieur De Chagny must be madly in love!" She joked with the maid.

"Raoul sent this?" Christine opened the lid, revealing a gorgeous dark blue evening gown. The dress itself was not flamboyant, only a simple yet elegant design, whose fabric slipped between her fingers as if it had been weaved by spiders. Light yet expensive, fit for an ancient goddess, not a conservatoire student.

"Come on, take it out!" The maid cheered, clapping her hands together at the sight.

As she gently lifted the dress from the box, more contents spilled out, drawn by the fabric. A box of shoes, protecting a fine pair of simple black pumps. Next to it, a sleek wooden case, that, when opened, revealed a thin chain of glittering diamonds, along with matching earings.

The mere thought of Raoul buying her all these luxuries made her blush, as she spun around, holding the garment to her body.

"There is a card, Christine," Maman noticed an envelope pinned to the inside of the box and gently tugged to release it, without tearing the paper.

Before the two women had time to peak inside, Christine snatched the paper and read aloud its inscription in black calligraphy:

_I have been astonished that men could die martyrs for religion_

_I have shuddered at it. I shudder no more_

_I could be martyred for my religion_

_Love is my religion_

_I could die for that._

_P.S. Six o'clock can't seem to come fast enough._

"Keats," she realised. "A poem. He wants me to wait for him at six. He mentioned he would come by later."

The maid sighed. "How romantic..." And she turned back at her chores.

Maman placed a soft hand on Christine's arm and smiled. ""Le Vicompte is a great man, my child. He loves you."

"You mean all that..." she showed the dress and jewels.

"No, Chrstine. I mean the poem. With borrowed words he expressed his true feelings." Her eyes landed on the ring around her daughter's finger. "Tread carefully, my sweet." Then she, too, left her.

Climbing the stairs to her room, her stomach swirled in agony and excitement. Why had she never before understood that his promises, both material and emotional, were true?

A new trouble tormented her; a few hours ago, she was resigned to the idea of never marrying, since she couldn't marry Raoul and had given her word to Erik, who had done nothing for so many months. She had decided her love for Raoul, however pure, was a natural part of growing up, but she had to let it go, like every other childhood memory.

She would not panic about it now. Since he'd suddenly sent her so many gifts, he obviously had something very important to tell her. Once the new information was presented to her, she would then decide her next step.

In the meantime, she'd treat herself to a little fairytale.

As she slipped the dress on, she realised it was hugging her waist and hips tightly, becoming looser at the skirt. The design itself was not very ordinary, but it was one of Worth's newer pieces and she'd have to trust the famed master and her own eyes, when they told her it was beautiful.

However, looking at the mirror, she wondered how on earth could Raoul know her measurements in such detail, to allow this perfect fit. The mere suggestion made her light face heat up as she straigthened the delicate folds of the fabric. Then she realised he had sneaked into her dressing room more than once, a fact she constantly chose to ignore, so he could have easily seen her dresses. Or have asked the dressmaker at the opera, since he'd spent so much time there.

The hours seemed to freeze and when six o'clock finally came she was ready, sitting in front of her vanity fixing her curls, waiting for the doorbell.

Half past six...where was he? Had he changed his mind? Christine had started to feel ridiculous, all dolled up for a man who set her up.

The heavenly sound was finally heard ten minutes later and she stood, taking her time to exit her room, remembering to breathe steadily. For the first time in forever, she felt like a princess, the little girl inside her cheering.

"Mademoiselle..." Marie approached.

"Yes, I know, thank you," she mouthed, hidden around the corner, trying to eavesdrop the conversation between Raoul and Madame Valerius, even though only the loud voice of her guardian was heard.

"Come right this way, Monsieur. She should be here in a moment."

With a deep breath, she closed her eyes and took the step, revealing herself to the living room.

Waiting for her, he was standing at the door, fidgeting with the black formal cane in his hands, looking through the door at the quaint house. Did she even know him? He seemed all too familiar and at the same time, a complete stranger.

Unsure of herself, she approached like stepping on ice. He heard her and lifted his head, eyes running down her body in shock.

"Christine," he spoke her name like a prayer, his voice soft yet coarse.

The sound seemed to absorb all her anxiety and she let out a small smile, eagerly joining him at the entrance.

"It's you."


	10. Chapter 10

Aaand we're back at it with chapter 10! I'm on a roll! A smalll chapter, but I couldn't contain myself.

* * *

_"It's you."_

"I'm afraid so." He took off his tophat, leaving it by the door absentmindedly.

She laughed and took a step back to let him into the house, but he turned away to take something from behind him. It was a giant bouquet of porcelain white flowers, one she could barely hold without falling over from the weight.

"They're beautiful," she breathed, in awe of the bloom, sticking her head comically over them. "What are they?"

He left them gently onto the table. "Kadupul flowers. You are breathtaking." It slipped before he could catch the words on his tongue.

She rubbed the petals softly with her fingers."They must have cost thousands." She later registered his comment and looked at her skirts, embarassed.

He waved his hand nonchalantly, no longer paying attention to the rare flowers. "An acquaintance in Mahu was kind enough to deliver them two days ago. I don't remember how much they were. Does it matter?"

She looked at him carefully, trying to see through the illusion before her. "No, it doesn't. _Mahu_?"

Without taking off his gloves, he ran a finger down the stem of a single one. "Sri Lanka."

Her jaw almost hit her chest. "You lie."

"I swore a long time ago to never lie to you again." He was still looking at her as if she were a vision. "When I bought the dress, I knew you'd be marvellous, but now..."

Christine had to shake her head in order to wake up from what seemed to be a brain malfunction. Was she dreaming? Sleepwalking, perhaps?

"How are you doing _this_?" she finally asked, unable to hold it back.

He appeared confused for an instant. "This? Ah, yes, of course you'd notice," he smiled a little to himself, touching his strong smooth jaw a little. "I must have forgotten to mention it. Clever little trick, isn't it?"

Half disappointed at his forgetting to tell her something so important and half excited at the prospect, she showed him to the living room, where mama Valerius was preparing the rich tea he had given her. Once the couple had approached her, she stood to properly greet her guest, even if she was a short woman and he was much taller than her.

"I don't believe we have been properly introduced, monsieur," she started and Christine felt like she was being given away.

"Ah, yes," Christine stepped in the middle to make the formal exchange of names long overdue. "This is Maman Valerius you've heard so much about."

"You are quite legendary, Madame,"he commented grinning and the old woman laughed, more starstruck by the rich aristocrat than her daughter.

"Monsieur, you_ jest_," she said, slightly bowing her head in respect. "Please, have a seat."

They all sat down again, without bothering to pick up their teas, instead looking at each other, unsure of how to continue. Mama Valerius was still observing him as if she were inspecting a counterfeit coin, and Christine shot glares at her, for being so painfully oblivious to proper manners.

"Yes, well," Christine felt awkward at the adoration her guardian showed. It was embarassing, in the way only a parent can be, but she would be lying if she said she didn't appreciate her approval. She had long pondered over that moment, wondering whether it would ever be possible and now, here they were, living it. She breathed, deciding it was time for the introductions to be over. "Maman, this is Erik."

A smug smile creeped up her face, as the man offered his hand politely. "Finally, we meet, Monsieur..."

Christine could feel the trouble coming, knowing Erik was only Erik, no surname to suit, and she opened her mouth, ready to mumble the first cheap excuse that came to mind.

"Deveaux, Madame," he bowed his head courtly.

Apparently satisfied, Maman Valerius instructed them to sit at the living room, while she returned to the kitchen to bring the rest of the teacups and some bisquits.

Christine turned to him, half-amused, half-confused. "I have questions," that's how she always phrased it during their lessons.

"I figured. Do tell," he supported himself on his cane as he sat back down onto the couch.

"Are you any better? You look better, but I can't trust you. What's going on with your face? And finally, did you buy all these?"

He chuckled at her panic, running his hand through his ink black hair.

"I'm better now, thank you, my dear. Though my venture to the outside world requires a delicious mix of opioids and a walking cane, which I despise. It makes me look ancient. My face is, as you can tell, how it would normally be, had I not been the result of one of God's bad jokes. What I mean to say is, the natural looking mask is complete. And yes, I did buy all of these. It's Christmas."

That's what she liked about him; she would ask a thousand continuous questions and he would typically reply to them all, one by one, leaving her without any doubt. But she had forgotten to ask one last thing. Ah well, it would have to wait for later, she had something more important to tell him.

"You know you don't have to wear this mask around me, that you don't have to wear one at all for that matter. But I'm happy to see you well. You really shouldn't have bought all of this, I have thought of nothing for you yet and now the bar's too high."

He continued looking around the house, as if he needed to know every possible escape route. "Nonsense, your existence is the only gift I could ever want from you, my love. And I know your opinion on the mask. But your family is here and they deserve my respect."

She blinked in confusion. "It's not disrespectful to show your face, Erik."

He held a hand up to silence her, returning his attention to her. "The matter is closed, Christine."

Oblivious to the quarell and to the natural appearance of the man before her, Madame Valerius returned with a lavish tray of treats, before serving everyone and sitting down opposite of the couple.

"Forgive my curiousness, Madame, but are you related to Dr. Valerius, the famous chemist?" Erik asked, looking sadly at his tea, which wasn't at all how he took it, but kept on drinking it nontheless.

Valerius perked up at the mention of her Henry. "He was my husband, sir. Are you a scientist yourself?"

Christine smiled at Erik's awkwardness, enjoying seeing him so open to her beloved guardian. "I'm afraid my skills do not exceed those of a mere amateur. But your husband had a tremendous impact in the progress of the field."

Now, it was time she joined the conversation, as she felt too left out and forgotten. "Erik, dear, shouldn't we get going?" she proposed, feeling her beautiful dress wrinkle by the minute.

He breathed, thankful the time to spend alone with her had finally come. "Of course, my love, you're right." He stood and extended his hand, which Maman shook eagerly. "It was an honour, Madame."

"I hope we meet again soon, monsieur Devaux."


	11. Chapter 11

A **huge** thank you to everyone who has taken the time to review! It makes me so happy to read them! Ahem. Onto the story now.

* * *

Christine had not realised how cold it was outside, until the door closed behind them and she was left with her coat in her arms.

"My dear, your voice," he said, wrapping her scarf around her delicate neck, as she basked in the comfot of her coat around her. "Shall we?" he extended his elbow and her arm snaked around it, mindful not to put too much pressure on his already weak body.

As they walked, Erik began rambling about their practice, how behind they were in her songs and how they would have to work on her all day before the Gala.

"But tonight, you rest,"he finished his monologue, slowly slipping out of his teacher persona.

While he talked, Christine took the time to have a closer look at the mask, which, from a certain distance, made him look like any other man. Unlike his usual black mask, this one was not attached to a string, instead being glued onto his proper skin, enabling him to fully show his facial expressions. His high cheekbones were now heavily pronounced and his black hair fell freely on a large pale forehead, free of any scars.

"Can I ask you something?" she finally inquired.

He turned to look at her, slowly peeling his gaze away from the beauty of Paris in the sun.

"Of course," he nodded, undisturbed.

His marvel at this outside world impressed her, since she had not thought it was possible for anything to impress Erik so much. She smiled softly at his childlike wonder.

"Why Devaux?"

Regrettably, he lowered his gaze and his brow furrowed. "It was my mother's maiden name. It was all I know of my family."

So she had touched a sensitive area. "If it pains you so, you don't have to use it, you know." She knew it wasn't very comforting, but it was all she could offer.

Intentionally, he turned his face away from her, focusing his attention to his cane, which his swiftly threw up to catch midway and continue carrying it by his side horizontally. "I_ hate_ this damned cane," he murmured instead.

She didn't want to pressure him. They had gone out to enjoy their evening together and she would make sure not to hurt him any more. "So, where are we off to?"

The change of subject was obviously much appreciated, and he perked up again, eager to present his plans. "First, we'll go to dinner at a restaurant I'm sure you'll love. Then, I have a small surprise for you."

The prospect intrigued her. "Oh, pray tell," she pushed out her lower lip in an adorable plea, and he could swear he died of love.

"You wouldn't know it," at her annoyance he continued, "not many people do. The owner is a private man."

She huffed jokingly. "Let me guess; _'old acquaintance'_ of yours?"

He laughed softly, enjoying the feeling of free movement. "You could say so."

His spirits were lightened again. Well, as much as Erik's spirits _could_ be lightened. Nontheless, it warmed her heart to know he could finally enjoy all those things he missed out on for years. Even if his demands contented to a walk through the park, or a dinner with her.

His stride was very long, taking two of her steps to cover the distance for each of his, for he walked like a grey hound, while she leaned more towards a cocker spaniel, with short yet swift steps. She laughed at the thought and he turned to look at her, questioning.

"Oh, nothing,"she blushed, "I just thought of us as dogs."

The piqued his interest even more. "As dogs?"

"Yes. Your steps are too big, like one of those hounds, and I rush next to you with my tiny feet, like those mops we see on the street, owned by rich fat ladies."

The equation must have seemed hilarious and he stretched an arm to rub her shoulder lovingly, as he took a comically offended expression. "Then, I love a mop! Is there a _problem_ with that, miss?"

She joined him in laughter and took his hand in her own, a gesture that startled him. "I much prefer grey hounds."

The sun slowly sunk in the horizon, giving his place to his pale silver sister. The street lamps illuminated the snow falling softly, and the crowds began to gather, to enjoy their Christmas Eve. Christine enjoyed the picturesque environment, however Erik seemed baffled. On one hand, the darkness made him feel secure, despite his adoration towards the rosy tones of the sunset. On the other, crowds plainly terrified him. The first pedestrian to cross them had muttered a soft, polite "Excusez-moi" and left without a second glance. Yet, Christine felt every inch of his being tense, as his left hand reached into his cape, in search for the infamous catgut, and his eyes turned into murderous yellow slits.

He could already hear the screams, the threats, feel the beating and humiliation that follows.

"Erik," Christine wispered, holding his hand nd slowly taking it away from the lasso. "It's alright."

The moment they were alone once again, his panic seized. "Forgive me, my dear. I'm not used to mingling with the crowds," he apologised.

She merely rubbed his arm comfortingly and kept on walking, as the road gave its place to the bridges over the Seine. The streetlamps shone, creating small stars in the dark waters underneath and making the golden statues glitter majestically. Together, they leaned over the edge, admiring the view, when Erik felt something soft hit his leg with force. Alarmed by this sudden assault, he turned with a soft gasp, only to find a small ball by his feet. He looked to Christine, as if asking for explainations.

She smiled, while fishing a curl out of her scarf. "There's a lot of children around here."

Indeed, a few moments later, a toddler with bright ginger hair approached, too shy and intimidated to ask for his toy. Again, Erik expected Christine to take charge of the situation, instead she remained silent, urging him to help the child.

"You should give it to him,"he whispered with the corner of his mouth.

"You do it. It's you he's afraid of," she answered plainly.

"Rightly so."

She rolled her eyes. "Not funny._ Come on_!"

Possibly more timid than the child, Erik slowly kneeled, picked up the wet ball and turned to the toddler, who stood a few meters away, stuffing his chubby fingers in his mouth, terrified of the man before him.

Erik concluded there was no way to avoid it, with Chistine looking down at him strictly.

"Don't be shy," he said with his special voice, the hypnotising one. "It's alright."

As expected, the small boy took a few clumsy steps, coming to stand in front of him swaying his little body from side to side nervously.

"There you go," he handed him the ball and patted his head. "Joyeux Noël."

The boy smiled, relieved he had not been repremanded. He repeated the wish in childish gibberish and skipped away towards the other children.

"That wasn't too bad, was it?" Christine asked as he rose back to his full stature.

"I...guess so," he admitted. "My hands are wet." He held them up for her to see.

Christine took out a small handkerchief and wiped his leather gloves before crossing her fingers with his once more. "You are such child," she laughed.

"Let's go,"he replied in mock severity, but secretly enjoyed the feelings that came onto him like an avalance from every minute of existence as a man.


	12. Chapter 12

Happy Holidays everybody! Ι hope you all have a wonderful time!

Quick disclaimer: Any Russian in this chapter is from google tranlsate, so if you find any mistakes feel free to tell me so I can correct them!

* * *

The crowds lessened as they walked further into the small neighbourhoods, the lights dimming on their way. Christine didn't know how there could be a restaurant open in this small side street, away from the large crowds of the centre. Of course, small brasseries were scattered here and there, but it was already too late for them to be open. She looked around curiously, trying to guess where their destination could hide, while Erik walked comfortably beside her, his head held high, looking straight ahead, without bothering to check the addresses on the buildings.

Finally, he stopped abruptly, and Christine wondered how that could have been it: a building of white stone, which blended seamlessly with the rest of the block. An apartment building, no doubt, with small windows overlooking the street.

"Erik?" She whispered as he took a step forward, ringing one of the doorbells at the entrance.

"Have patience," he replied simply.

Unsure of what to do, she stood next to him, trying to conceal herself from the snow under the entrance of the large building. After around five minutes of anticipation, a small man came to the door, dressed in simple working clothes. He was very thin and, Christine noticed, roughly a head shorter than her. With a nod he greeted the couple and stepped aside to allow them in.

Unsurprisingly, the most peculiar thing about the entrance was it's complete lack of peculiarity.

"On the first floor, Monsieur," the strange man said courtly, in a thick and broken accent.

Erik let her walk in front of him, as they ascended the winding old marble staircase. Once they reached the top, a silent corridor awaited for them, with an array of closed numbered apartment doors. At that point, Erik took the lead once more, holding her hand to guide her through the thick darkness, towards the second to last door.

It was nothing but an old and battered wooden door, with the number 12 in rusty silver lettering at the height of her eyes. Erik knocked two times, paused, and repeated the move with another three. Movement could be heard behind the door and Christine squeezed his hand tightly, as her lungs deflated in anxiety.

The door opened only a crack and a line of warm light hit the opposite wall. A foreign male voice asked them something in a language Christine could not understand and, without missing a beat, Erik answered accordingly. His reply must have pleased the man behind the door for it was now wide open, warm air slipping out into the cold hostile corridor.

"Erik!" A well-built man exclaimed in excitement, before turning his attention to her. "Madame," he bowed slightly in front of her.

"Арсений, это было слишком долго. Я вижу, ты не изменил свои старые способы, старый друг."_ Arseny, it's been too long. I see you've not _

_changed your old ways, old friend._

"дело сложно, Эрик. Но всегда есть место для тебя и твоей жены." _Business is hard, Erik. But there's always a place for you and your wife. _

"У вас есть стол для нас, тогда как обещали?" _You have a table for us, then, as promised?_

"Конечно. Иди сюда." _Of course, come this way._

The man let them inside, where Christine was shocked to find a complete luxury restaurant, big enough to cover the whole floor, behind all the closed doors. A few other patrons were sitting in separate booths, discussing quietly, as champagne and wine flowed freely and fit waiters carried around bizarre plates.

Erik pulled the chair for her, before taking his seat across the table of their private booth, a sleek candelabra with two candles separating them.

"What is this place?" She finally asked, still unable to comprehend the situation.

He took off his cape and sat back, observing the dim light cast shadows on her angelic face.

"Arseny is an old friend from Nizhny-Novgorod. His food was the best in Russia and remains to this day. However, he's been a little naughty, doing business with the Mafia, so he was hunted down and forced to come to France."

She bit her lips at his tale. "It's beautiful here. How did you meet him?"

He grinned, the flames of the candles setting his golden eyes ablaze. "I saved him from the gallows. But that was a very long time ago."

As usual, where there was Erik, there was a grim story. "He seems much older than you. How old were you in Russia?"

He lowered his eyes, as if trying to count how much time had passed since he wondered around the unforgiving tundra, with nothing but his talent to get by. "Around seventeen, I believe. Yes, because I met Nadir a year later."

_Seventeen?_ At that age, Christine had barely left her room, let alone have ties with the Russian mob.

Before she could say anything more, a waiter came for their order and Christine was at a loss. The menu in front of her was written entirely in Russian.

"Do you have something particular you'd like, my dear, or should I order you something?" He asked politely, still speaking her familiar french.

"I don't know, Erik. You can choose for me."

Erik swiftly placed their order in the foreign tongue, before returning his attention back to her.

"Christine, there is something I must tell you."

Her hands froze in cold sweat. "What's wrong?"

He sighed, as if preparing to admit something grave. "My attitude around you the past few days had been inexcusable. As it had also happened to be in the past. You do not deserve to be treated in such a way. I cannot ask for your forgiveness, only swear that you'll never have to deal with such manners in the future."

It was the apology she had hoped for all those days, yet doubted it would ever happen.

"I do forgive you, Erik. It's true that your words have hurt my feelings deeply in the past, but I am willing to leave it all behind, if you do the same. The past few weeks had been very difficult for you, I understand that."

He put his hands on the table in front of him, leaning closer to her, visibly shaken. "I hope you realise I have a particular tenderness for you and one I have never felt for anyone up to now."

Her voice caught in her throat. He had told her he loved her before, but now it was so calm, so bare in front of her that she couldn't brush it aside. "I know, Erik. Never doubt than I'll be with you whenever you need me, for there is no point in denying the obvious anymore." She finally admitted, as a sweet fire spread through her body, traveled in her veins, infiltrated her very core.

The waiter returned with two similar dishes and a bottle of burgundy wine, which he served before leaving them alone. Christine took her time to enjoy this newfound warmth inside her, while Erik was clenching his fist, trying to calm his raging heart.

"I'm not a good man, my beloved. I have a dark past on my shoulders," he rasped.

She swallowed her spicy stew. "You're not a bad person for the ways you tried to I'm here for the whole of you."

He tried to desperately reason with her, as the glass of wine in his hand trembled. "You don't know what you speak of."

"I know enough to hold you near."

He let out a forced breath. "Will you hold my starved fingers? Will you love my scars and scratches and disgusting skin? Will you love my mind filled with anxiety and woe and terror? Will you love a monster?"

She smiled, her big blue eyes wide. "I will."

Two insignificant little words and they knocked the air out of him. All the nightmares of his life, all the sorrow that marked his entire existence, for this single moment.

"I know your hands are scarred from murder," she continued over the steam, "and yet I trust them completely."

He did not speak and she did not pressure him. She ate her food in silence while he drank the wine, avoiding her gaze.

The tension remained through their whole meal, until Christine decided she's had enough of silence for the day.

"That was delicious, Erik. What is it?" She asked, nodding towards her empty plate.

His eyes regained focus and he swallowed hard. "Slow cooked beef stew with marmalade. I'm happy you enjoyed it."

She smiled sweetly and he wondered what divine plan had shoved this angel into his path.

"You said you had a special surprise for me," she reminded him.

"Of course. Are you ready to leave?"

With her agreement, he exchanged a few words with the Russian man and they were on their way.


	13. Chapter 13

I hope you're all enjoying the holidays! Your reviews are truly a gift! Quite a small chapter ahead, but there's more to come soon!

* * *

"Why do I have to keep my eyes closed, Erik?"she moaned, extending her arms in front of her, trying not to trip on the cobblestone sidewalk.

"Do you not trust me, my dear?"he mused, gently guiding her through the cold, enjoying her elated cries of joy and laughter. "You can open your eyes now."

Christine was waiting for an awesome sight and Erik's uncontained excitement had raised her hopes too high. However, her face fell once she realised she was standing in front of none other than the same opera house she's worked in ever since she came to Paris.

"The Garnier?" she frowned, her thin nose crinkling. She did not want to disappoint Erik, though, who, for some unknown reason, seemed extatic, so she forced a disheartened half-smile.

"No, my sweet," he replied, his voice coming to its full grandeur, "not simply the Garnier."

She tucked her hands into her coat, realising the exposure to the cold had left them red and dried. "Erik, I'm certain this is the Garnier. I come here everyday. We _live_ here."

He huffed in exasperation, his shoulders dropping dramatically as he rolled his golden eyes. "You women have no patience, do you? Now, quit prying and come along!"

He didn't lead her to their usual entrance at the side of rue Scribe. Instead, he walked confidently the main staircase, along with the rest of the crowd, before turning back and extending his hand to her. She didn't question him anymore. _Let the poor man have some fun_, she thought to herself and promised to be as cheerful as possible.

"Sir?" a serious voice interupted their pantomime, demanding the tickets for tonight's performance. _Romeo and Juliet_, Christine realised.

Regaining his terrifying regal composure, Erik wordlessly handed them over, barely looking at the vallet by the door.

"Enjoy the show, Monsieur," the young man said, now with less authority than before.

They easily mingled with the crowds, people that did not scare him out of his wits, for he knew them well. Better than they knew themselves, to be exact. His eyes darted about the room as the advanced deeper towards the grand staircase that had taken him five years to perfect.

The Countess de Bergard, middle aged woman who attended only to meet with a young ballet dancer afterwards. Monsieur and Madame de Villeford, nouveaux riches trying desperately to fit in. Monsieur Leroux, journalist for Le Matin and amateur writer. _Ha,_ Erik thought bitterly,_ the man couldn't know litterature if it was stuck up his backside._ He laughed to himself, earning the raised eyebrow of the fair lady beside him.

He cleared his throat. "The performance doesn't start for another hour, my love. Care to join me on a little tour?"

Christine, who, until then, was not thrilled at the prospect of attending a mere ballet, perked up, her awesome blue eyes sparkling in excitement.

"About?" she teased him, smiling.

"The secrets of this place only the man who build it with his hands could know," her expression twisted in confusion, "I did, sweet."

She nodded in understanding. "Of course."

Slipping into the shadows, Erik tinkered with a microscopic switch. An instant later, the solid marble wall in front of her opened wide, revealing a passage parallel to the main hallway.

"_Quickly_!"he whispered, pushing her inside the passage.

Once the wall was sealed, a string of gaslamps sparked alive on the stone walls of the corridor.

Erik cleared his throat. For the next hour, Christine learned the twisted and genious functions of the opera house, which now resembled a proper magic box, working at the whim of its magician. An inner clockwork, complex and vast. He told her of the Commune, of the years he spent hanging upside down from the ceiling with Garnier, long after the workers had left, trying to work through every detail.

"It was then that I thought of the ghost,"he confessed. "Poor Charles, his health was declining day by day. Of course it was nothing but a joke at first, intended to ease a sick man from any worries. It was only later that I began to see how it might gain me more than a good laugh."

Christine cherished every tiny artifact, every intrecate jewel of plaster seemed mesmerising, as he weaved the tale of the grandest building in all of Europe.

"This opera house," he finished, "is my most exquisite work, built on my litteral sweat and tears. My _magnum opus_."

She leaned against him. "I thought Don Juan occupied the title," she rubbed her eyes in pleased exhaustion.

"No,"he protested, "Don Juan is a swan song, my love."

The first bell was heard arouond the corner, signaling the beginning of the performance.

"Shall we?" he extended his elbow galantly and they made their way to the auditorium, taking their seats inside the infamous box five.

Christine was moved by the tragedy of the lovers of fair Verona. She wept with Romeo and felt the exhilarating heat of first love with Juliet. Her heart flustered through the Gardens of Italy and was stabbed along with Juliet's. And as the curtain fell in font of La Sorelli's lifeless body, she applauded until her palms were stinging.

Ballet was never something of interest to Erik. He judged the music and appreciated the immense talent and effort of the artists. But it never spoke to his soul. Not like pure music could. It infiltrated his very core, beat with his heartbeat, ran through his veins. Music and song had been his oxygen, his breath of life, when he could swear he'd died. And after eons of his ceaseless quest, he found it all concentrated in one creature balancing between heaven and earth. _Her._


	14. Chapter 14

Happy New Year everyone! Here's to the year that passed and the one to come!

* * *

Christine's mood had skyrocketed since their shared evening. Her magical gown was still hanging on the front of her armoire, since she couldn't think of an adequate place to store it and wanted to cherish it for as long as possible.

It was still extremely early in the morning, the sun had not yet risen and the sky was a pale lilac colour, as she looked through the window of her kitchen. It was Christmas Day and she had awaken early to prepare for the upcoming gala. Marie was silently working next to her, helping bake the last tray of Christmas cookies.

She looked at the clock on the counter. Three more hours until she had to meet Erik for their lesson, so she had sworn herself to silence, in preparation for the exhilarating strain tonight's performance would bring to her vocal chords.

The doorbell rang.

"It must be carollers," Marie breathed next to her, wiping her hands in a rush to open the door.

"I have left some francs on the mantelpiece," Christine said, closing the jar of honey and putting a spoonful of the golden syrup in her mouth. Continuing to knead the last pieces of dough, she wondered how quiet the children at the door must be, since their singing could not be heard at all. _Perhaps it's a shy child,_ she thought fondly.

A second later, a flustered Marie burst in the kitchen, worry and confusion twisting her big brown eyes.

"There's a man asking for you. He seems a little shaken up."

Her mind wondered who it could have been, daydreaming numbly that he had come again to pick her up. She sighed and, with the spoon still in her mouth, waltzed into the living room.

To her utter shock and terror, it was not the man she dreamed of, but his Eastern friend, who was looking out of the window, twisting his astracan hat anxiously in his hands. Her heart nearly popped out of its cage.

Once he perceived her presence, he rushed to her, his usually calm demeanor having given its place to hardly restrained panic. Her throat closed up and she removed the silverware from her lips.

"Miss Daae, please escuse my intrusion,"he started politely, in a rush.

"What happened, Monsieur Khan?" she questioned, gripping his forearms with her trembling hands.

"All doors to the lake are closed and Erik is not answering. My mind's gone to the worst," he mumbled.

Draping her large coat over her nightgown, she fished the key for the door to the cellars out of her pocket. "Let's go."

The Persian had to chase her trough the streets of Paris as she ran as fast as she could, unable to stop herself and wait for a carriage. She felt her stomach rise to her throat and she stopped, hunching over a corner of the sidewalk, dry heaving and clutching her stomach, as the sky above her was spinning.

Nadir rushed to her aid, but she shoved his hands away, took a hurried breath and continued to run through the few people casually strolling by.

_Why is everyone moving so slowly!_ She groaned and pushed through them, ignoring their rude remarks. She threw herself in front of a carriage in an effort to cross the street and the Daroga wasn't entirely certain they would reach the opera in one piece.

_Finally!_ In the horizon of the long avenue, she could make out the majestic building and she bolted towards it with all her might, as the passers-by exchanged strange looks at the sight of a madwoman running to the opera with such passion.

She threw herself against the door of the rue Scribe, trying uselessly to shove the brass key inside the lock. Her hands trembled too much as she pushed against the wood.

"Damn it!" she cried out and Nadir took the key from her, trying to gently put it in. Once the final click was heard, Christine shoved him aside and pushed it open, running inside the pitch black belly of the earth.

She knew the way throught the labyrinth blindly. She kicked off her shoes, which were catching on the stones, and ran barefoot in the cellars.

"Erik!"she screamed continuously as she descended deeper and deeper, hoping for his reply, searching for his voice in the silence.

After an eternity, they arrived at the door of the house, which she unlocked with unprecedented force.

Her eyes caught the sight of him thrown across the couch on his stomach, a vial of a deep burgundy liquid fallen next to his hanging hand.

She ran to his toneless body and dragged him to a sitting position, shaking and shouting his name, as tears were streaming down her reddened cheeks. Yet, despite her efforts, his head continued to hang backwards lifelessly.

The daroga approached with caution, letting out a desperate cry at the sight of the liquid. "Stupid, stupid man! Allah help me!" he exclaimed and frantically started to look around the house. "Come help me!" he shouted back at Christine, who was now wailing over the fact that he didn't have a pulse.

"A small black vial with a thick, dark green syrup!" he instructed as if she were a soldier and she obeied without any objection or question.

They threw open cupboards and drawers in the living room, in his room and in the kitchen. Papers were scattering on the floor, as Erik lay lifeless on the couch.

"I can't find it!"she shouted through her panic.

"Keep looking!"

She was kneeling down, inside the cupboard by the organ, when her hand nudged a tiny cool glass. Did she break it?

Grabbing it as fast as she could, she realised it was intact and matched the Daroga's description.

"I found it!" she shouted and ran to Erik.

"Hold his head,"said Nadir, spilling the foul smelling liquid between his thin cold lips.

Christine arranged his long legs on the couch and lay his head on her lap, stroking his inky hair gently and whispering sweet nonsense to him.

The hands on the clock dragged on in breathless anticipation, as Christine grasped his wrist, looking for any flicker of a pulse.

Ten seconds.

Twenty.

Twenty five.

Underneath her fingertips, she felt the divine flicker of butterfly wings.

"Yes!"she breathed and took him in her arms, allowing her tears to flow freely. His breath was warm, soft against her skin. _Alive._

A few moments later he exhaled deeply and slowly opened his eyes, the dim light of the gaslamps hurting his golden eyes. His sleepy gaze fell on Christine, who gave him a watery smile through her tears.

"Christine..."he whispered, his angelic voice weak and coarse.

She stroked his hair again and he closed his eyes, savouring the feeling.

"Hush, my love,"she cooned. "It's alright now. We're alright."

Nadir aproached, standing above the couch and looking down at them.

"Is he any better?" he asked and wiped thick beads of sweat from his forehead.

She only nodded, not daring to peel her eyes from him. Her own humming soon lulled her to sleep, as she cuddled next to Erik.

A sudden nudge woke her up, almost knocking her off the couch.

"The gala..."Erik said, rushing to his feet and losing his balance.

"Take it slow!" she shot up to catch him, feeling her own vision swim slightly.

Trying to regain control of his body, her moved his arms around. "Your rehearsal..."he dragged towards the piano. He raised his hand to rub his eyes and realised the absence of his mask, a fact that upset him, even though he didn't have any power to react.

"Erik..."she muttered dishartened.

He cleared his throat, standing upright. "Don't_ 'Erik'_ me, my dear. We have less than eight hours."

She didn't dare to oppose him, so she stood next to him by the piano, as he began their scales.

At the music, Nadir peaked through the door, with a glass of sherry in his hand and a raised thick eyebrow. Erik shouted something persian over the melody and Nadir disappeared without a word.

"Clear intonation, Christine!"

He stopped her every so often for some last minute corrections and the hours passed. Her stomach rumbled.

"You're hungry,"he stated.

She raised her shoulders. "Well, it's been five hours."

The daroga walked in the music room, with a smug look in his emerald eyes.

"There is warm food in the kitchen," he announced and Christine could not contain her hunger.

She sat across the Persian at the table, as Erik climbed onto the counter, popping a couple of pills into his mouth.

The daroga jumped at him, grabbing his hand viciously. "Enough with the drugs, Erik!"

The worn phantom returned to his corner, shooting daggers at his friend. Nadir returned to his seat and started what sounded like a lecture in the language she could not understand.

"In french, daroga," he corrected, "when Christine's here, you'll speak french."

He sighed. "Very well. I can't believe you dared to keep Fatma's brew. You knew it was dangerous."

Christine tried to join the conversation "Fatma?"

The daroga turned to her. "A persian witch. The potion _this genius_ over here took, was a conconction of powerful persian drugs, used to treat soldiers during battle. The liquid you gave him was the antidote."

Erik leaned on his elbow. "I couldn't take her out in my state, daroga. I needed something stronger."

Christine sipped the warm soup Nadir had prepared. "A witch?"

Nadir shrugged. "Erik's friends were not the best of characters."

Erik tied the mask around his face once more. "Obviously. I was fraternising with _you_."

He rolled his eyes. "Very funny, Erik."

Christine finished her meal and laughed at their childish behaviour. "I'd better be going," she muttered.

Erik climbed off the counter and gave her one last pep talk, before sending her off.


	15. Chapter 15

You reviews give me life! Keep them coming, they're extremely appreciated!

**Quick Il Trovatore description: **Leonora is a lady-in-waiting to the princess of Aragon and is in love with a gypsy trobadour, Manrico. However, Il conte de Luna is also in love with her and threatens to imprison and kill Manrico, if she doesn't choose him(as you do). Leonora refuses and the count goes through with his plan. In the finale, Leonora stands outside the prison and sings _D'amor sull'ali rosee_, hoping that her prayers will save her beloved's life. There is also another parallel plot about the relation of Manrico and the Count, but it has nothing to do with our plot, so I'll leave it to your interest to find out the rest(which I totally advise, it's just a beautiful opera).

* * *

"Five minutes, miss Daae," the stagemanager's voice was heard behind the door, as she fought to adhere her long brown wig over her bigger than life head of blond curls. The thousands of pins drilled into her skull and gave her a growing headache before the show had even begun.

Much to her dismay, the door creaked open, a small dark head popping its way through the crack. A child that couldn't have been more than fourteen shyly approached La Daae, who was glowing in her bright red princess gown.

"Mademoiselle?" the small creature called for her attention, its hands braided behind its back.

"Hello,"the diva answered with a soft voice, trying to save the warmup Erik had given her a couple of hours beforehand. "You must be little Meg."

The acknowlegdement tug at her pride and the girl straightened her strong ballerina core to its full height, extending a willing hand towards Christine. "Marguerite Giry, Mademoiselle,"she introduced herself properly. "I'm terribly sorry to bother you, I only wanted to wish you a good performance. A lot of names are here," she explained, her small head peaking behind her towards the door, as if she could see the crowd gathering in the grand auditorium.

The reminder of the gala's importance sent a trail of pins down her spine, as she shook the girl's slender hand, her porcelain skin contrasting with the olive toned of the dancer's.

"Thank you very much, Meg," she finally returned, while the dancer was walking towards the door awkwardly. "Break a leg!" she exclaimed, the door clicking shut in front of her.

Without granting her but a moment of peace, another presence intruded her thoughts. It was an unfamiliar stagehand carrying a large bouquet of roses, packaged by a florist, and adding it to the growing mount of flora next to her boudoir mirror. The first bell chimed, echoing inside her head and traveling down to the pit of her stomach. She closed her eyes and rested her hands on her lap, breathing gently, mindful to open her tightening diaphragm.

At the second bell, she decided it was time to head to the wings, before the crowd backstage became too thick to sail through. Her corridor was-thankfully-silent, allowing her to gather her thoughts, as the sound of her low heels on the yellowed marble bounced around her.

"Christine," Esmée, the soprano who performed as Leonora's maid, turned to her. "Bisset conducts tonight."

Christine approached her, squinting her eyes as an opposite spotlight blinded her. "Good," she nodded. "How is it so far?"

Esmée swallowed her large sip of water and wiped her mouth. "Everything's in place. The seamstress has left your quick change on the other side. Carnot and his wife are here, along with three ministers."

Christine fastened the string of her belt and the third bell chimed. The auditorium darkened and her reply to Esmée died on her lips, as silence reigned, interrupted only by the applause at the maestro's entrance.

Order was restored and the maestro's baguette hang in midair, seemingly attached to every caught breath in the hall. Christine felt her blood pumping down her arms and legs, spreading from her core to her limbs, like a live fire.

The percussion rumbled, gentle yet confident, rising from the pits of the earth and reaching the aether, errupting into a triumphant overture. Last pieces of scenery in place. Il conte di Luna passed by the two women, joining the rest of the chorus behind the curtain. The duel scene cleverly plunged the spectators directly into action, as swords clashed in choreographed conflicts and voices roared.

The violence had stopped and now the scene gave its place to Leonora's balcony, where the lady in waiting and her maid looked out for the trobadour.

Esmée leaves her side in the wings and carefully steps on stage, as the strings pull repetively their bows. She turns to look at her, who's still hiding behind the curtain.

_"Che piu t'arresti? L'ora e tarda: vieni."_ A clear soprano voice carried the phrase to the farthest of seats.

Esmée continued and Christine inhaled, ready for the recitative of her entrance aria. _The first word is always the hardest,_ she thought and parted her lips, exiting into the spotlight, the still cool air of the stage awaking her.

_"Un'altra notte ancora senza vederlo," Another night without seeing him._

She leaned against the fake column and ignored the building excitement inside her chest, a look of longing in her eyes. No, not in hers-in Leonora's eyes.

"Allah save me! Are you set on dying tonight?"

He ignored him and continued securing his thickest coat around his shoulders. The Persian stomped his foot comically on the carpet and he chuckled, despite his throat's protests.

He paid no attention to the nagging that followed, for he could hear the voice of his beloved soaring above his head in the distance, Christine calling to him as Leonora called Manrico.

"You are too late, daroga,"he breathed silently, adjusting his mask. "The gala's already started and you're not in box five."

His friend passed his palm over his forehead. "I sent flowers, as you asked. I have to babysit you instead of enjoying my evening."

Erik unlocked the front door of his house and, with trembling hands, let the boat loose from its ropes. With the agility of a monkey, he jumped inside, earning a desperate look from Nadir. His heel knocked against the wood rythmically, following the cadenza from above. He hummed along, almost too far gone into the music to notice the Persian's efforts to climb in next to him.

"I taught her well, daroga," he concluded with a sigh.

Still groaning from effort, Nadir straightened his jacket and hat. "Yes, but try to stay alive tonight, long enough to tell her."

He grabbed one paddle with each arm and started rowing across the still, manmade underground lake. "Sarcasm noted, not appreciated, daroga."

Trying to keep up with Erik as he roamed the building was like trying to follow a street cat in a junkyard. Yet Nadir wouldn't leave his side, even if he'd almost given up ten times until they'd reached their destination. Erik, despite the pain piercing his lower abdomen, kept on climbing higher to the rafters, coming to rest only once they were level with the chandelier.

"Don't look down, daroga."

As if instructing him to do the opposite, Nadir's eyes lowered to the abyss below and he swang forward along with the glimmering crystals of the chandelier.

"Which part of _'don't look down'_ do you not understand?" Erik hissed. "Now, sit down and enjoy the show."

Even though he'd never admit it to Nadir, Erik himself was not too fond of heights. Of course, in time he'd learned to brush his heart racing aside, almost always prefering to hide as far from humanity as possible. However, more often than not, his breath still needed adjusting, for his eyes kept replaying a certain terrified dark haired italian girl falling to her death before him. He shut his yellow eyes and forced himself to concentrate on the gypsy tribe singing below him, as his hand snaked around his torso in a desperate attempt to ease his burning pain.


	16. Chapter 16

And it's back! Sorry for the late update, sometimes life happens and I can't seem to focus on writing. Next chapters will hopefully be more frequent. As always, your reviews keep me going!

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The lights dimmed as the scenery changed, the pavilion giving its place to a prison wall, the winds confidently introducing the spectators to the last act. Half a tone lower, Erik noted mentally, as he passed his hand discreetly through his coat. He clenched his jaw and felt his heart rise to his throat, realising the severity of his situation.

The shadows gathered in the far right corner, slowly coming to form his beloved, shrouded under the large hood of a dark green cloak. His nerves got the best of him, as she took center stage to prove the work they had done for so long, yet he decided to concentrate on his own breathing, which became shallower with every ticking second. The tightening in his chest burned throught him, like a incadescent iron fist and passing a hand over it did not seem to ease his pain.

_"Timor di me ?...sicura, presta è la mia difesa,"_ her voice circled his foggy mind, unable to help him like so many timmes in the past.

_"I suoi occhi figgonsi ad una gemma che le fregia la mano destra."_ His vision swam and he lost his balance, making the plank underneath them sway in the air.

"Erik?"

_"In quest' oscura notte ravvolta, presso a te io son," Wrapped in the dark night, I am near you,_

"Erik, what is it?"

_"e tu nol sai..." and you don't know it..._

"Daroga..." He stood, losing his balance and reaching a hand towards Nadir for support.

_"Gemente aura che intorno spiri," Wailing wind,_

"Get me out of here," the audience undeneath him became a sea of blurred colour.

The way down the rafters became harder than the Persian had anticipated, with his exhausted friend stopping at every twist, as his stomach rose to his mouth.

_"deh, pietosa gli arreca i miei sospiri..." carry to him, mercifully, my sighs..._

He drew his hand to suppport himself against a wall, as his coughs ripped his insides apart. He was lightheaded, his eyes saw nothing but white, heavenly light.

_"D' amor sull' ali rosee," On the rosy wings of love,_

"Erik!" His knees bent.

_"vanne, sospir dolente:" go, pained sighs:_

"Can you hear me? Erik!" Nadir's voice was far, far away.

_"del prigioniero misero conforta l' egra mente..." go to alleviate the sick mind of the wretch that lies imprisoned..._

"Listen to me! To her!" The light was now slipping away. Ice cold shivers ran up his toneless arm.

_"Com' aura di speranza aleggia in quella stanza:" Like a breeze of hope linger in that room:_

"Stay, Erik! Allah...Stay!" Someone was shaking him.

_"lo desta alle memorie," wake him up to remembrance,_

He was set down, leaning against a marble wall.

_"ai sogni dell'amor!" to dreams of love!_

"Christine..."a prayer escaped his dry lips.

_"Ma deh! non dirgli improvvido, le pene del mio cor!" Yet do not imprudently reveal the woes of my heart!_

The auditorium errupted in a violent wave of applause, whispers and shouts, making the crystals of the chandelier twinkle. The Persian paused to take a look at the angel beneath them, who was now kneeling on the edge of the stage, with her hands in the air and her yes searching hungrily the darkness above, hoping for two golden dots to appear.

"She was perfect, daroga..." he sighed, tucking his hand back in his coat, this time feeling it come out damp.


	17. Chapter 17

Does this chapter progress the story in any way? No. But I wrote it because the idea came to me and I thought it would have been fun to write, even though I obviously took many liberties with certain guest characters, since it's not the first mention of actual people in this story. Plus, we all need a little rest from the main plot's misery, don't you think?

As always, your reviews keep this story going so keep'em coming!

* * *

Another bouquet wrapped in commercial paper landed in her arms, as she struggled to get across the sea of people crowding in the backstage corridors, some regular opera s and others desperate fans of glowing divas trying to catch a glimpse of their idols.

"Miss Daae!" She heard her name shouted at her behind her back and as soon as she turned the flashing light of a camera burst in her face. "Could you sign these?" A pack of the gala's leaflets were shoved towards her.

Even though she never denied anyone kind enough to ask her for an authograph, the crowds pushed her deeper into the room, almost swallowing her like kinetic sand.

"Christine!" A lively reporter tried to approach her, followed by a crew of other journalists and phtographers. "Tonight was a triumph!"

She lowered her gaze in humility, still trying to avoid being knocked down by the rest of the convives, who laughed and shouted all around.

"It was a big production, being worked on for so long by everyone involved. It's really exciting to see how well-received the new adaptation of a classic work was," she replied with her standard rehearsed press-answer.

They all scribled on the notepad obediently while nodding in agreement. She couldn't wait to get rid of her thick costume and wig.

Her eyes flew upwards torwards the burning gas lamps across the walls, reminding her of her heat and exhaustion. How suffocating could gala nights be?

"Christine, you are the talk of Paris, yet still remain a mystery to your fans. How can the great Daae be still an unmarried woman, even though it is well-known that she is pursued by men of the highest society?"

Those questions always angered her. The press seemed to treat the performances only as an opportunity to peak into her personal life, in truth ignoring completely her artistic work.

"My private life will remain as such for as long as I wish it to be and it is my greatest hope that the public are interested in nothing but the music I, along with my colleagues, try to serve. Goodnight, monsieur, and thank you."

Her sombre answer did not seem to please him. "Thank you for your time, mademoiselle," he replied coldly and turned to leave.

Finally, she managed to reach her dressing room door and practically shove out everyone who tried to follow her inside. Mindlessly kicking her low heels off, she sat down to unpin the loosened brown waves from her head, muttering a very un-ladylike curse her someone knocked on her door once again.

"Come in," she shouted, wishing they'd all get lost.

Instead of the usual flock of journalists and patrons flouding her room, a timid young man approached silently, taking off his tophat in respect to the french diva.

"La mademoiselle Daae?" he inquired with burning eyes and she affirmed his question with a slight nod. Notting the growing pile of flowers on his left, he continued, "I'm afraid I come bare-handed for I thought it needless to pay a talent as grand as yours-if I may say so myself-such frivolous respects in the form of beautiful yet fleeting flowers."

His french was faultless and his eloquence stunned her, despite the obvious heavy german accent. She slightly bowed her head and brought a delicate hand to her chest, trying to convey her gratitude.

"Monsieur, it is an honor to hear those words being spoken sincerely," she muttered sweetly and found herself drawn to starting a conversation with this beautiful foreigner, with the-slightly longer than usual-brown hair, green eyes and kind smile. "Are you involved in the arts yourself?"

She stood and wrapped her thin robe de chambre around her, minding her modesty in the presence of a stranger.

He scratched his ear awkwardly, as if struggling to form a sentence in his mind before replying. "I like to think of myself as a composer, yet artists like you make it difficult to believe in one's talent."

She laughed and he mimicked her. "Monsieur, don't be so pessimistic! After all, you seem to be very young still and composing is no easy feat. If you ever compose an opera, it would be my honor to sing it."

His eyes widened in an exasperated expression, which did nothing to cease her easy laughter. "If I ever compose an opera, it would be a dream to have you sing it, madame."

"Then it's a deal," she agreed and another knock was heard on the door. "Do excuse me. Come in!"

The door was flipped open excitedly to reveal a disheveled Raoul.

"Christine! You were-" he froze at the sight before him. "I shall bother you no more." He bit his words and left at once, terrified to see Christine laugh alone in her dressing room, and with a new man this time! Perhaps she truly wasn't as innocent as she looked.

"Raoul?" She shouted, rushing towards the door, yet didn't have the strength to chase him outside. She huffed. "I'm sorry about this."

The young stranger raised his gloved hand, reassuring her no offense was taken. "I must be on my way, in any case," he explained. "I look forward to watching you perform again, Mademoiselle."

"Monsieur?" she stopped him as he turned the doorknob, "I never asked your name."

He smiled and wore his tophat with his other hand. "Richard Strauss, mademoiselle. Goodnight," he slightly bowed his head and left.

Alone once again, she took her time to think while changing the rest of her garments. Perhaps, in another life, she would have been attracted to this young man, like he obviously was attracted to her. But now, she had a reckless vicompte angry at her and a fiance to care for. Her eyes darted to her ring finger and the gold band around it reminded her of how much pain she would have to encounter in only a few minutes. And how, in this life, there was no one she'd rather spent eternity with than Erik.


	18. Chapter 18

Watching the musical live again reminded me of all the reasons I'm in love with this timeless story. So, there you go, a new chapter! Can't wait to read your thoughts about it!

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"Erik, I beg of you, go lay down," Nadir whispered, having almost given up on any attempt to heal his friend.

The spectral creature stalked the living room slowly, pensively, occasionally leaning against a piece of furniture to support what little was left of his emaciated body.

"Daroga...I need to talk with you," his throat, the fine instrument that had never once betrayed him, now scratched him from inside, making speech painful enough.

Nadir refused to answer for an instant, trying to convince himself that if he ignored the elephant in the room long enough, it would disappear.

"Daroga," he persisted, now leaning wearily against the bookshelf and lifting the mask ever so slightly, only to allow some air through it.

The Persian insisted on his childish game and stood, presenting a feigned interest to a trinket by the piano; a small, delicately carved swan, made from simple wood, yet more beautiful than if it were of diamonds.

"Nadir...please."

The whimper behind his back almost knocked him on his knees like an iron baton. He reluctantly turned and took off his hat of astrakhan, setting it on the piano next to him.

"Don't ask me, Erik. Anything but this," he ran a hand through his grey hair, averting his eyes from the corpse.

"There is...You are the only one I have. It won't take long,"his sharp shoulders dropped and he carefully made his way to his armchair.

The daroga of Mazandaran joined him around the small table. "I suppose there will be nothing to write down," he simply said, rubbing his palms on his thighs.

"No," he shook his head, a few inky strands swaying gently with the tight movement.

"Good," Nadir nodded, "good...well?"

Erik swallowed-his phlegm, his pain, his pride-and started with a deep breath. "There is an account at the Banque de France under the name _Charles Devaux_. It's yours. It has been since the day I found out you set foot in this country."

"Erik, I can't possibly-"

"You will accept it. Think of it as a refund for the mess in Tehran. Also, in the second draw-" His coughs seized him and Nadir could do nothing but stare blankly at the image. "Excuse me. As I was saying, in the second drawer of my desk you'll find a few items of personal significance I would like you to have. The Shah's ruby amongst them."

At the mention of their old miscief, Nadir's eyes lit up, as he was reminded of the witty boy swaying his legs off the side of the imperial throne. "You kept it? Why not sell it?"

He tried to smile. "I like to keep beauty to myself. Money was of no consequence."

Nadir's mood was painstakingly trying to climb his tall mountain of sorrow. "You shouldn't have done any of this."

He leaned back, momentarily enjoying the support the wall provided against his head. "Forget politeness, at last, daroga. It's a gift for a friend." At his uneasy silence, he continued. "As for Christine..."

The change of interest was refreshing and Nadir sat back up. "Yes?"

Erik eyed him, rolling his golden irises tiredly, and continued. "She is, of course, allowed to do whatever she wishes with any of her belongings. There is money in my desk for her as well, enough to get by comfortably for the next ten years. I only have one request; she is to return, whenever and if ever, she feels ready, to bury me, with the ring I gave her."

The daroga's face twisted in horror. "Bury you? First of all, Erik, if the worse happens-"

"_When_ it happens, Nadir," he corrected sternly.

"_If_ it happens, don't you think it's cruel to have her bury the man she loves?"

Erik looked at his thin palms sadly. "On the contrary, it will be quite relieving."

Nadir rose his hands in exasperation. "You really-? Allah, why are you doing this to me? I won't even bother to argue with you about it. Second; it will be quite impossible. Physically, I mean."

Erik's gaze returned to him. "Then, you could, perhaps, help with the practical part."

The door cracked open and an unruly mane of blond curls shyly creeped inside, too afraid to disturb the presumed silence.

Erik's eyes watered at the thought that death would be so cruel as to never allow him to see those curls again. "Christine," he muttered, as if the previous conversation had never happened.

She gave a startled exclaim. "I'm sorry I'm late. How did you like the performace?"

He stood, and Nadir noticed his jaw tighten, yet his moves remain smooth. "Manrico was lovely, the far left first violinist is tone deaf, and you were, naturally, outstanding."

Christine laughed at the comments and blushed at the praise. "Do you think the third meter of my last piece needs work? I felt it a little weak."

He rubbed his palm anxiously. "I did not hear your last aria, my lo-" His coughs returned, shaking him to the floor, as soprano and daroga run to his aid.

"Erik!" She souted, kneeling next to him and wrapping her arms around his torso. "My god, his heart's racing!"

Nadir's fingers circled his wrist, counting the fleeting pulse of life underneath the fragile skin. "You're right," he noted.

As she moved him, his jack fell to the side, revealing a bloodied shirt underneath the vest, which she swiftly unbuttoned. "Again? Erik, when did this happen?"

He struggled to free himself from her grasp and stand. "Sometime this evening. Don't be afraid."

Her too intrusive hands reached out to him once again. "Don't be afraid? I'm terrified, Erik! The mere thought that you might-" she choked on her sob, but quickly regained her composure. "Here, let me help."

Gentlier this time, she wrapped is arm around her shoulders and lead him to her bedroom, a repetition he didn't have the power to refuse.

She tucked him underneath the covers, lowered the lights, for she knew how painful bright light was for him, changed his shirt and moved in to take off the mask. He drew his head back, as far into the pillow as it would go.

"It's alright, my love," she lulled, "we're too far past this." Her slender fingers sliped into his hair to untie the strings, a move she had learned to be much less triggering than grabbing it off his face all at once.

His fists clutched the sheets as she pressed her angelic mouth to his distorted forehead.

"Your fever has gone up again," she sighed. "Let me get a cold towel. Do we still have the soothing syrup?"

"Above the glasses," he whispered, his eyes already closed.

Even though he couldn't see, his hearing remained sharp and, when he heard muffled whispers coming from the kitchen, stretched his ears.

"He will refuse a doctor," Nadir was explaining, a statement which had Erik's agreement.

"I'll take him sedated if I have to!" She shouted in a whisper. "He can't die, monsieur Khan, _he cannot._"

His heart squeezed at her insistence.

"My child," Nadir continued, "Erik is my brother. I'd give my life to him if I could. But you must see the truth; all these symptoms that haven't been going away for so many weeks are septic. No one survives this."

_"He will!"_ She cried out, loud enough to be heard clearly now. "_You_! You told me he had been poisoned and survived! This time will be no different!"

"Fine," Nadir said, earning a grin from Erik. "Propose a doctor and I will support you. But do not be too hopeful."

Before Christine had time to return with her supplies, he had fallen asleep. She sweetly lifted his head onto her lap and pressed the cool compress to his forehead, making sure the covers never slid past his shoulders.

Observing him as he slept, she lowered herself to face him. His features remained the same, thin flesh, stretched like a tambourine, over sharp bone, yet seemed now smoother, relaxed. Too carefully, afraid of breaking the sacred moment, she pressed her forehead to his and cupped his sunken cheek with her small hand. She closed her eyes.

"We'll do this together, my love."


	19. Chapter 19

Why so silent my dear readers? Feels like I'm writing to the void lately. Is the story dragging on too long?

* * *

_"Daroga..."_

_"Daroga!"_ a soft voice from nowhere circled his mind, as he numbly stirred the soup Christine was preparing for the day. He recognised its mellow allure.

"Stop it, Erik," he whispered and shook his head, trying to physically force it out of his brain.

Alas, the pestering, delicious sound continued. "Do me a favour."

He threw the ladle in the stew, the hot liquid splashing onto his dark jacket, making an array of crude words fly out of his mouth. "What do you want?" he hissed.

"Two sheets of paper, a pen and my violin," the voice replied in his head. "Make it quick, she won't be in the bath forever."

Despite his annoyance, he followed his instructions. Allah, the cellars were doing him no good. No wonder Erik's screw had loosened all these years in that rat hole. Entering the Louis-Philippe room, he found him sitting on the bed like the sultan-or the sultan's relic, for that matter- nonchalantly smoking a small wooden pipe he had recently undug from the back of some cabinet. He recognised the familiar scent of the poppy seed and almost craved it, yet reminded himself he was too old for such nonsense and that Christine shouldn't have to tend to two intoxicated fools.

"You feel like writing?" he inquired, setting his finds at the edge of the bed.

"Hm," Erik hummed without looking at him, "perhaps."

Nadir supported himself on the doorframe casually. "That's good. She's making chicken stew for you."

A gagging sound immerged from his throat and he chuckled at Nadir's momentary alarm. "Chained to a bed and spoon-fed? Never thought I'd end up eighty in the course of a few weeks. Daroga, if she tries to feed me lentil soup, please shoot me."

Nadir rolled his emerald eyes, but grinned at his friend. "You never took illness well, old man."

Erik hunched forward to reach his violin. "I'm not ill, Nadir. Good old stabbing."

He wanted to keep him talking, just for the sake of seeing him well, but he had already began to tinker with the violin, signifying their conversation was over.

Once the Persian was out of his way, he put the instrument aside and bent his knees, trying to write against his thighs. His head was pounding at the temples, but he carried on, awkwardly hesitating only at the beginning, unsure of how to start.

He didn't keep count of how much he wrote, but once he put the pen down, salty streaks had formed on his face. He lifted the mask ever so slightly to wipe them away and turned to hide the folded papers inside her nightstand, but stopped midway.

Perhaps it would be best she'd never saw this.

With a growl, he lifted himself and dragged on towards his room. He should sort his notes, as Christine always said, as he tried to reach his organ, stepping over endless piles of compositions. He took Don Juan in his hands and it seemed almost comical how devoted he had been to this work for more than a decade. He realised, of course, writing this music was eating him alive, each note urging the hands of his clock a second forward, stealing away seconds, that turned into hours, into years. But it was true. It was all he had to say put to paper and he always said he wouldn't go speechless.

Leafing through it, he reached the piece he was looking for. An instrumental he had come up with the first time he'd spoken to Christine behind her mirror, when suddenly he'd woken up from an eternity of dark hybernation, fogged by death, starvation, and his twisted, sick music.

"Erik!" She shrieked behind him and he turned to find her, with her hair still wrapped in a towel, her ends dripping all over his expensive carpets. "Can't I leave you alone for a moment? Your wound must heal," she sighed.

Hurriedly, he burried the note between the pages of his opera and followed her back to her bed.

After what had been a tremendous fight, she managed to force-feed him some chicken and make sure he would not starve himself. The Daroga excused himself, explaining he had to return to his home aboveground and make some arrangements if he were to spent half his time in the cellars.

Christine found he slept a lot lately, something so rare for the Erik she knew, who went weeks without a moment's rest. She concluded he needed to heal and let him sleep endlessly, while she sat next to him, reading him her favourite books softly. What an image it must have been, to see an angel hunched over a demon, reciting latin prayers of hope and salvation to him.


	20. Chapter 20

"Why am I not surprised you managed to survive this far?"

There was a woman in the room, close to him. It was not his Christine. This one had black striaght hair that fell to her waist and bore an ancient aura around couldn't see in the dark, yet somehow her image imprinted in his mind.. And even though the voice came from the foot of the bed, he could feel her on his fingertips.

Orange blossom. The scent he had avoided his whole life now filled the room.

"What do you want?" He rasped, his lips barely able to move.

She laughed softly, sadly. "I don't want anything, Erik."

He tried to move. "Am I dreaming?"

Her shadow came closer, he felt the air around him shift. "Are you?"

His hand reached to her, but an invisible veil was holding it back. "Stop playing with me."

"See, the little monster cries. And I thought you only sang."

He swallowed. "Is this hell?"

The image shifted, as if he could see around the space without moving. His sweet Christine was asleep in her chair by the bed, her prayer book fallen open on her lap.

"It can't be," he concluded, "she wouldn't be here."

The woman looked over to the sleeping angel and scoffed. "You really believed she could love you?"

"No," he admitted. "But I love her."

"Enough to die for her?" She tossed her hair back with the elegance he remembered.

"Enough to sell my soul. Or whatever's left of it." He somehow managed to shrug and wondered why his freedom of movement was limited to only insignificant flinches.

"Poor creature."

His vision swam and the dream before him changed.

The air was cool now, a soft light coming from above illuminated the space and allowed him to see the dust dancing around him. He was standing and with a step forward, the wood of an old stage creaked underneath his bare feet. He lifted his head and found himself on the stage of a small theatre, like those poor ones that perform alternative plays, where the seats are almost level with the actors .

He was wearing a loose black linen shirt, over clean yet worn slacks. No wound pierced his ribs.

Turning around, he realised the scenery behind him consisted of a single pile of soil, or sand, he could not tell.

"Am I dead?" he muttered, his calm voice bouncing around in the void.

"Not yet," the woman returned. "Do you wish to be?"

"I don't know."

He could see her clearly now and she had not aged a day. Still beautiful. Beautiful and cold.

"Erik," she hummed, "play me something."

"What?"he sneered at the ridiculous proposition.

"Not a comedy, of course."

He took a step back, feeling vulnerable against powers he could not identify, which orchestrated this twisted parallel world.

"Well, come on!" She cheered mockingly. "Indulge me."

His mind was numb, yet something told him he had to open his mouth to say something, anything. He closed his eyes to think.

"To die, to sleep- To sleep perchance to dream-"he started.

"Predictable," she stretched like a cat and left her front row seat to climb onto the stage and sit by his feet, patting the spot next to her.

He obeyed without thought. "Why did you hate me?" He stated, as if he were talking about the weather.

Her pale bony hands were folded on her lap. "I didn't." She paused. "My first instinct when I saw you was to kill you. Then you sang."

He raised an eyebrow. "The cry of an infant stopped Medea?"

Her lip curled and they also resembled each other. "You terrified me," he rolled his eyes at the shallow feeling, "not your face. No matter how furious I was at it for ruining my life, I grew used to it. You teriffied me. You were too much."

He leaned back casually, laying on his back against the cool wood. "Did you marry him?"

"No. Not after what'd happened. Every moment with him I felt my guilt choke me," she admitted.

He sighed. "Foolish woman. At least my infantile sacrifice would have meant something."

She turned to look at him, as if in a great hurry. "What's about to come, you can't control."

Despite her slight panic, he continued laying there, with his hands behind his head. "I know. Will she be sad?"

She climbed off the stage and made her way towards the small corridor. "Only for a little while. Why do you care?"

"I want nothing to cause her pain."

"Yours doesn't matter?" She had almost reached the door.

"I'm used to mine."

She pushed it open and turned to look at him, knowin their thirty years apart were nothing compared to those to come. "Goodnight, little one."

He rose to his knees and took one final good look at her. "Goodnight, mother."


	21. Chapter 21

Your. Reviews. Are. Appreciated. Keep. Them. Coming.

* * *

He shot up, his hands clammy, as his side screamed at the sudden movement. A dream...a dream. Nothing more. His Christine was there still, next to him, utterly oblivious to the malicious presence lingering over her head only moments before.

Perhaps a glass of cold water would calm his throbbing temples. Yes, clear cold water would be divine.

He tried to stand without waking her up, for she was sitting close to the bed, too close for his comfort. Leaning against the wall, he managed to control his steps and keep the close to the furniture, where the floorboards underneath him would not creek.

He reached the hallway and for the first time in almost 24 hours, the room came spinning down to him. Unable to resist the tempest, he leaned forward, slowly crutching to the floor,until his vision was stable. Alas, the moment never came, for after the spinning, a curtain fell in front of him, burying him in total darkness.

He needed to stand. In all his injuries, never before had he experienced such symptoms. The ugly worm of panic had crept inside his brain, where it was now nested. He kept moving, like he had done in the past. Neve stop. Stopping is dangerous, he reminded himself, strenching his arms in front of him, n order to avoid any collisions.

"I can't see." He exhaled audibly in the void around him. He was powerless. Never before had he felt so defensless. Weak. He knew what happened to the weak. He'd never be one again. So he kicked onward.

Before he could register what was happening,a sharp pain pierced through his right thigh and was followed by a nauseatingly loud crash. Too much stimuli. He could not tell what was happening and felt like a deer at gunpoint.

"Allah, is he crazy? What time is it..." he made out a muffled whisper in his darkness.

Darkness had always been comfort, safety. Now it felt lke the descent to hell.

"Do not speak ill of the dead, daroga. I can hear you," he snarled, desperate for some sort of affirmation, of control.

Was this still a dream? It felt real. But then again, so had the previous one.

"Erik? What happened?" His hearing was still sharp and he could tell feet were dragging on his carpet.

"Nothing. Nothing..." He chose not to say anythng of his momentary...impairement. "Nadir...could you bring me some water?"

Surprising silence.

"Wa- ah...yes. Yes, of course. Are you any better?" The footsteps became distant again and he remained frozen, afraid of knocking anything else down.

"Yes. I only needed sleep. It would seem."

"That's very good to hear. Here," the voice was again, probably stretching a glass of bliss in front of him. Once again, he chose not to move, without having an actual course of action in his mind.

"Erik? Are you certain you are quite alright?" The persian insisted.

"Yes, yes. My eyes are too tired to see in this darkness." He stretched his hand in front of him weakly and a cool weight was placed in it. He carefully clasped it and brought it to his lips.

"The lamp is burning, Erik. There _is_ light. Do you not see?"

_No! No, no, no...What the hell is going on?_

He stretched to glass back towards its source, feeling the coll liquig calming both his pain and his panic.

"Of course I do, you moron. Why would I not?" _Why can I not!?_ "My eyes are hurting, that's all. I'm going to bed."

_How do I go to bed with him watching? Ah, well, here goes nothing._

He slowly set one foot in front of the other, his blindness making him feel he was walking on a tightrope. Which he _could_ do. With his eyes _working_.

"Do you need any help?" Nadir pressed.

"I'm fine!" He bit and kept on walking, hoping there was no wall in front of him. Thank god he had no nose to break.

Finally, after what felt like eons of excruciating pain and terror, he could hear her soft breathing and knew he was close. He had never found himself quite in such a darkness before. Even at night, locked in a covered cage, or underground, his cat-like vision allowed him to make out his surroundings with enough accuracy, needed to move easily.

His legs bumped onto the bed and he turned around, attempting to sit as softly as possible. Once he was back under the covers, he checked her undisturbed slumber and focused on the pressing matter.

_Why can't I see? What do I do? Fuck, my side's burning again..._

The thin voice in his head continued its nagging in a crescendo, until fear was all he could think about.

_Stop it! Shut up! How do I fix this?_

He paused, trying to desperately gather his thoughts and make some sense of it all.

He had been the Shah's assassin. He had been injured severly countless times and helped treated others' wounds on occasion. Diagnosis?

_Come on, Erik! Think._

He breathed and clenched his hands, forcing his brain to start working.

_Blindness. Must mean pressure-brain damage? Not impossible. I have an infected gaping hole at my side._

It had all started to click together.

_Sepsis. Great._

Less than twelve hours.

_Goddamn it! Now that I mentioned it, I bet you're enjoying this, right? Your experiment gone wrong. Sadist._

He laughed and felt tears well up in his useless eyes.

_I need to sleep. Isn't that the best way to go? In my sleep, like an old man, who's lived a long, easy life. Ha!_

"Erik?" The sound of his name jerked him out of his reverie. She was still asleep.

_My love...ah, Christine, sleep easy, your days of torment are almost over. Christine...How I loved you you'll never know._


	22. Chapter 22

I tried my best to make the Persian titles etc. as close to reality as possible, but research can only get you so far. If you know anything more, I would be more than happy to learn as well, and, as always, if you see any related mistakes, don't hesitate to point them out so I can correct them! Thank you for reading the story, you're the ones who keep it going!

* * *

She moaned, as she cracked her sore neck. Sleeping in the armchair was a gloriously terrible idea, yet she could not care too much about her well-being at the moment. Unvoluntarily, her eyes darted to the side to catch a glimpse of a peacefully sleeping Erik, who remained tightly tucked underneath the bed covers. In an attempt to satisfy her incessant curiosity, she abandonned her seat and joined him by the bed, resting her chin on the matress next to his masked face. She noticed how his mask seemed to appear and disappear at random, even though she rarely saw him remove or replace it on his own. Usually, it had been her who insisted on him keeping his face bared, especially during his illness.

His hand had come to rest next to his head on the pillow and, as the soft light fell on the crooks of his mask, giving him a sweetly innocent yet awfully melancholic frown. Her eyes trailed on his bony arm, where small bruises around the veins and endless scars and scratches decorated his sickly transparent skin. The side of their arms next to each other lead her to the inevitable comparisson between his marks and her single scar, which she had acquired the night this whole nightmare had begun.

Softly, as if she were touchng an infant, she placed her lips at the small line of forehead reavealed at the top of his mask and was ecstatic to realise his temperature had dropped significantly, since his skin was almost too chilly against her warm face. It wasn't cold, by any means, only...Erik chilly.

She brushed his black hair away from his face and rearranged the pillows, mindful not to wake him up. She thought she even heard him sigh in content in his sleep and her heart swelled with joy at the hope that soon they'd be able to leave this entire mess behind them. She held up har hand and looked at her engagement ring in adoration, hopeful that someday soon, she'd have replaced it with a proper wedding band, with its twin around the spindly finger of the man who had reminded her how to live again.

In truth, after her father had died, any human interaction, any attempt to continue living seemed senseless. Despite herself, she had caught her mind wandering off the edge of Maman Valerius's balcony rail more than once, but quickly recognised she was in no way ready to commit this sin. It was in such a state that Erik had found her, when their lessons first began. She was only a wailing child, back then, unable to even stand and accompany her maestro in his divine melodies the first few times. The rest of their relationship was history, both for them and their closest people. Monsieur Khan, la Maman... Suddenly he realized that if she were to consummate their marriage, only two people would ever find out, while to the rest of the world, she would remain the chaste and secluded singer and Erik, well, only the ghost of a rumor.

The man who had done so much for her. The man who had done so much _to_ her. She had weighted the odds long ago and decided against the later, for it was possible she would not have been sane today, were it not for his intereferance, even through less than gracious means. The exploitation of her father's memory was something she would always hold against him, but was willing to set aside, since he had showed his sincere remorse for his actions.

"Mademoiselle," a deep voice resounded behind her back, where she found Erik's friend standing, holding a steaming teacup in either hand. "I heard you and thought you'd might want some tea."

Smiling, she raised to her feet and accepted the hot beverage, setting it on the bedside table to cool down. "His temperature has dropped. I hope he's getting better,"she whispered softly, looking down at her beloved.

Nadir nodded, although not entirely convinced. "He woke me up last night in a particularly confused state."

"It could have been a nightmare. He suffers from them quite often," Christine reminded him, needing to hear it more herself.

He shrugged, drawing her attention to the coat hanging from his arm. "I must be leaving you for the day, I'm afraid. There is some business I need to attend to."

"Yes, of course," she turned to look for her own coat. "I thought I could go out for some time in the morning, while he's still asleep. Would you care to accompany me above?"

Surprised that she would leave Erik, Nadir agreed silently, and the pair, forgetting their drinks behind, made their way to the surface, where they parted once they'd reached the rue Scribe door. Christine felt more comfortable knowing she could be left alone for a few hours. Not that Monsieur Khan was an unpleasant companion, but she needed some time by herself to collect her thoughts and process everything happening around her.

The Parisian sky was miserable, thick gray clouds covering any chance of sunlight she had hoped to get during her venture to this outside world. The streets were remarkably empty, with an occasional drunken company passing by her, without seeming to notice her presence. Of course, this was a common occurence in the early morning hours, when the convives of the local pubs were sent on their way by the owners. What was less common, however, was the couple of stares she earned from the few respected women she crossed on her way to the florist. Curious herself and embarassed beyond belief, she dared to seek an answer in the glass of a pastry shop. Indeed, her reflection was not exactly pristine, her once large dress deflated and winkled and her face dull, with large dark shadows around her glassy blue eyes.

She finally found the flower shop she'd been looking for, thinking some fresh flowers would refresh the atmosphere of the cellars, adding a burst of colour in their dark house. Strangely, the local shop was bursting with clients, some even ordering large and elaborate bouquets, adorned with ribbons and accessories of any kind and cost.

"A bouquet of lillies, please," she simply said over the noise and the lady helping her seemed almost relieved at the simple request. In a matter of minutes her order was complete and she payed the small sum at the busy counter.

"Happy New Year, Mademoiselle!" the flourist wished her as she exited the shop.

It was new Year's Eve! How could she have forgotten?

The daroga had never been near the Grand Mosque de Paris, despite having spent almost a decade now in the French capital. Yet, here he was, trying his best to mingle with the rest of the pious men in prayer. After performing wudu at the courtyard of the Mosque, he silently advanced towards the inside, when a small whisper behind his back made him freeze on his tracks.

"Allah! Nadir Bey, Daroga!" the masculine voice exclaimed.

He turned, his face stone cold, prepared to meet the hostile face of one of his coutrymen, who still accused him of treason to the Padishah. However, the man before him was bowing in respect, not daring to lift his eyes towards Nadir.

"Do not bow to me in the house of Allah," he ordered and the still unknown man hustled to his feet.

"Do you not recognise me, Nadir Khaan?" A twinge of disappointement was hinted in his deep voice.

Nadir felt a sting of guilt, as this man's friendliness exceeded usual respect. "Do forgive me. It has been long since I left my homeland..."

"...under suspicions of high treason. I know, Your Excellency. I am Gazsi Akhtar, Daroga. I served under your commands for fifteen years."

The repressed Persian inside him sparked to life and Nadir streched his hand to shake his soldier's heartily. "Gazsi, of course! Allah, how could I forget my best soldier! What brings you to Paris?"

His face darkened and he looked around suspiciously. "After your arrest, Daroga, the Khanum was merciless. Wanted anyone who knew of the Angel's plans to be questioned and, if found without information, executed. You need to know, Nadir Bey, your whole army supported you. We knew you could have not betrayed the Shahanshah. But the man...you understand, we couldn't risk our lives for the Khanum's puppet assassin. Is it true, Daroga?"

Nadir hung his head in regret. "I'm afraid it is. I helped him escape Her wrath. I was imprisonned and tortured, but soon, my silence tired Her and she ordered my exhile. My family name was the only thing that secured me a wealthy pension, enough to live here. And you?"

The man had been on his way out when they met and was now preparing to leave. "My daughter is getting married to a Persian immigrant and we'll live here from now on. It was my honor to see you well, Beym."

Nadir gave a weak smile. "A daughter? Last time I saw you, you were so very young. May Allah protect her and her new family. Good day, Gazsi."

He placed a hand over his heart, gesturing his gratitude for the wishes. "Inshallah, Daroga. Good day to you."

This sudden encounter made Nadir worried. His faith was lost to him since the tragedies in Persia, but now he felt the need for guidancec from a higher power. After so many years, he needed to pray and reflect, and Gazsi reminded him of who he truly was, no matter how far he disappeared from the gardens of the Golestan Palace. He was Nadir Farhadi Khan, Son of the Prince Abdul, Daroga of Mazandaran.

In deep concentration, he leaned forward and started mumbling his prayers. Rookheya was there, beside him, more beautiful than the day she became his wife, and Reza, his beloved boy, who lived so little yet loved so vastly. He prayed for his friend, asking Allah to protect him, since no man could.

"He's not a believer," he reminded himself, "but he's not any less of a human."

He prayed for Christine, noting her Catholic beliefs, yet begging the Almighty to help her through her grief and pain, for she must truly have been one of his Angels. How could a girl so small, so innocent in life, go through so much all alone? Erik had told him of her past, so he knew it was not an easy one. Yet she remained strong and hopeful, without being brutalised with loss.

She deserved happiness. They all did. In the end, they were all human. They all wanted to be good people. And they needed a soft epilogue.


	23. Chapter 23

Nadir was a wreck when he finally pushed open the door of the house by the lake that evening, while carrying a packet of steaming food Darius had forced him to take to Erik. His servant was not particularly fond of the masked man, yet seeing his master so distraught caused him literal anxiety, so he figured, the faster he became healthy, the faster Nadir would be well again.

"Mademoiselle Daae?" he inquired, seeing the house empty and looked around the front rooms, hoping to see her there. He had forgotten how heavy loneliness could feel and that day he had gotten plenty of it.

Progressing deeper into the house, his ears started picking up a faint, slithering sound and he followed it, coming to stand at the threshold of the Louis-Philippe room.

_"...Sancta Maria, mater Dei, ora pro nobis peccatoribus, nunc et in hora mortis nostrae. Amen. Ave Maria, gratia plena, Dominus tecum. Benedicta tu in..."_

Christine was kneeling by the bed, her hands clutched in front of her in fervent prayer, as tears streamed from her closed eyes. He could only see her from the side, from where he was standing by the door, yet he could tell her beautiful features were twisted in a grimace of agony and pain. Her mouth prattled on uncontrollably, like a posessed woman's, and her beautiful voice, in that desperate whisper now sounded almost sinister, like the long hiss of a snake.

He cleared his throat, wishing the terrifying image to cease and she turned abruptly, instantly lowering her eyes in shame and wiping her tears away.

"Forgive me, Monsieur Khan, I did not hear you come in..."she started, still choking on tears and embarassement, for having been caught in such a vulnerable position. Her prayers were disturbing when they became too desperate, or that was what Maman had said whenever she would pray after Gustave's death.

"Do not apologise for tears or prayers, my child," he aproached her in a fatherly tone. "I hoped to see you better, that is all."

Once she felt her face had cleared from crying, she dared lift her beautiful eyes to Nadir who was now sitting next to her on the floor, wile maintaining a proper distance, so as not to make her more uncomfortable.

"Sometimes I feel so lost..." She started, awkwardly twisting a thread of her dress between her fingers, "And no one seems to listen, even when I try to pray." Her eyes looked up, indicating to him she was referring to the upper force she believed in. "Erik..."she choked on the name, as new tears flooded her eyes, "Erik was accepting of my faith, even though he mocked the divine with every chance. I think the notion was a little bit silly to him, I suppose."

He stretched a hand to her, which she willingly accepted. Nadir had finished with his God for the day and had his mind in order, so he was in a good place to comfort her.

"The notion terrified him, because he can't accept that someone, in heaven or earth, had done all this to him willingly. Injustice bubbles up inside him, and not unrightly so. After all, it was a question I always had, but never could find the answer to.

"I guess...perhaps that's why I fell for the illusion of the Angel of Music so easily," she admitted. "I felt everything collapsing around me and, when all my questions, all my hope was met with complete silence, I started to despair. Of course, I never expected a straightforward answer to come to me, like someone speaking to me directly I mean, but then it did happen, and it felt like finally I had someone."

They weren't exactly having a proper conversation, only took turns in voicing all their troubles and thoughts. Christine was overcome with a feeling of ease, finally being able to talk to somewhat of a father figure, who listened and advised, without plaguing her with more questions. Nadir, on the other hand, wanting to help the girl and explain his trail of thought, hoping for some kind of confirmation.

They sat in silence for a while, until their spirits were calm and they could finally resume to pretending that everything would be alright. He was the first to stand up and walked to the kitchen to fetch the food he had brought them. She remained next to the bed, stroking Erik's hair as he slept on, for what seemed to be like centuries.

"I don't think he'd woken up at all while we were gone," she noted, numbly holding her mirror over his mouth to check his breath. "His breathing is very shallow, should we be worried?"

Nadir sat across of her and handed her the plate. "I do not think so. As long as he's breathing and doesn't have a fever, he should be alright. His body needs time to heal."

She took a bite of the spicy meat and enjoyed the sensation of having something in her stomach to ease her nausea. "You're right. Maybe I should have called in a doctor, or gone to ask one. We're not doing enough, since we don't know of any medications he would have to take to get better."

Nadir could hint at her panic, even though she concealed well under her easy tone. "There's nothing more to be done, Christine. he shows signs of improvement, so we have to allow him the time to rest."

She didn't like his answer and was not willing to pretend to be calmed by it. So she set her plate on the nightstand and left, hiding away in the library, where the fire burned and she could rest.

He shook his head dismissively, understanding why she was upset and not wishing to make the situation ny harder for both of them.

"You'd better wake up old man," he shot a sideglance towards his sleeping friend and retired to the living room, in an attempt to get some much needed sleep.


	24. Chapter 24

It is true that no light pierced through the thick layer of soil covering Erik's house. And every sensible man would think better than to dwell too much in a place where no life could grow. Yet Christine had learned to live and find comfort in the utter silence that reigned in the early morning hours, when the opera above them hadn't woken up.

It was in such a condition that she found herself in that morning, laying lazily in the warmth of the loveseat by the fire. She was calm and content, a bizarre occurence, considering the ordeal she had got tangled up in. Casually, having nowhere in particular to be, she took her time to wake up and cherish the first morning of the new year.

Opening her brand new journal, its spine still hard from lack of use, she noted the date on the top left corner of the first page. A whole blank book, like the whole blank year ahead of them. How hopeful she always was.

_ Dimanche, le 1er janvier 1893_

_Dear Diary,_

_ The past year left quite a sour taste in me. I have to admit that I regret a fair share of mischief and thoughtlessness, but I am certain this year will be the happiest yet. As papa would say, the best moments of our life are always ahead. Happy New Year!_

With a sigh, she kicked back the chair, leaving the diary open on the table, without worry of anyone seeing it. If Erik saw it, there was nothing wrong to find in it. She made her way towards the kitchen, when she thought about stealing a glance at Erik first.

The door of the Louis-Philippe room was open, and she was faced with the daroga's back as she approached. Perhaps he woke up, she thought and almost clapped her hands in excitement. The first day of the year and things were already better!

"Monsieur Khan!" she called from deep inside the corridor, but he did not even turn to acknowledge her call. She didn't want to try and shout louder, mindful of Erik's sensitivity to loud noises.

All sense of propriety in her restrained her skipping to her room, and she had to contain herself to excitedly tapping her fingers together as she came to stand next to the Persian.

"He's woken up?" she asked with a smile, swaying from side to side like a child who was promised more sweets.

"No," he answered solemly, not tearing his gaze away from the bed, yet not entering the room.

She was disappointed, but her good mood didn't falter, since the day before he was getting better by the hour. "That's too bad. I guess we'll have to let him sleep, then."

"Yes."

What was wrong with Monsieur Khan? Was he not happy to see his friend finally healthy? She shrugged to herself. "I'll make some tea. Would you like some?" she inquired and had already turned to leave the room.

"Mademoiselle."

It wasn't a question. Not even an answer to hers. But it was an answer alright. The one answer she had not dared to think of.

She returned with a quick step and suddenly, she felt exactly what the Persian was feeling. She just could not cross the threshold _of her own room._

"When?"

"Sometime this morning, most likely."

The lake outside hit the shore softly, rythmically. The boat was hitting on its stake. She left to go and fix it, before the noise became too annoying.

"Where are you going?" he asked, his voice betraying his confusion.

"To tie the boat."

He blinked. "Didn't you hear me?"

She continued walking towards the door and ignoring him. From the corridor, he heard the front door open, and close a minute or two later. Back to his side she was, arranging her sleeves. "I couldn't reach the rope. Remind me to tell Erik when he wakes." She once again walked to the kitchen and put the kettle on the fire.

Nadir did not know how to handle the situation. "Mademoiselle," he tried again. "Do you _understand_ what I told you?"

Her small head peaked from around the door for an instant. "Of course."

"And you're not upset?"

A sigh. "Why would I be upset about a lie?"

He froze. "_Pardon?_"

She returned, juggling three cups of steaming tea. She handed him one and walked into the room, setting the second by the bed. "As Erik always says, you panic too easily, daroga. He's just asleep, see?" She brushed his head tenderly. "Perhaps I'll wake him up later, so he can drink his tea when it's cooled down a little."

He took a deep breath. "Christine, I'm afraid the tea will get cold."

"_No._" Her honeyed tone was in truth biting.

"You have to trust me."

Her anger was scorching her from the inside. "No!" She shouted. "I don't trust you!" She pulled the covers higher around Erik's shoulders and stood in front of Nadir to confront him. "I refuse to trust the man who betrayed him in Persia. Who tells me you're not betraying him again?"

He raised his hands in defence. "What- Christine, you must see-"

"Out of my house." It was a growl.

"Please-"

"_Out of my fucking house!_" She screamed and pushed him out, further towards the door. "Get lost from my eyes!"

There was nothing he could do. If she didn't believe him, so be it. He decided to leave before his temper pushed him to do something he would regret later.

She slammed the door in his face.

_What was he to do?_ He had his own pain to manage, denial would get him nothing but hurt.

Inside, her panic, fear and anger slowly burned out nd she returned by Erik's side, laying on te bed with her book. "Your friend is really a booby, my love. You are right," she kissed his forehead and started reading.

She could not tell how many hours had passed when her stomach started rumbling in protest. She turned to check Erik's temperature, before leaving him to go cook something quick to suppress her hunger.

"Nonsense, your fever's dropped. I'll make chicken soup, for when you wake up."

She was convinced she was right. She _knew_ she was. The problem is, once the worm of doubt creeps inside your mind, it refuses to leave, until it eats you up. With this pest in mind, she leaned in and clutched him tightly, kissing his cold lips for the first time after so long. Her frail soprano voice whispered in his ear the song he had not heard her sing.

"Tu vedrai che amore in terramai del mio fu più forte..." _You will see that never there was on earth a love stronger than mine..._

"Vinse il fato in aspra guerra, vincerà la stessa morte..."_ It won over destiny in bitter confrontation, it will win even over death._

"O col prezzo di mia vita la tua vita io salverò," she choked on tears she had not felt fall.

"O con te per sempre unita nella tomba io scenderò." _Or eternally united I shall go to the grave with you._

* * *

It was hard writing this. But the story is not finished yet, dear readers.


	25. Chapter 25

The strong winds tussled her heavy blond locks, as she stood over the edge of the rooftop, looking down to the world and far into the horizon, where the city's baroque skyline disappeared into the thick gray clouds.

Originally, she had come up to think, but now, that she clutched her coat around her arms, her thoughts would not go in order, comprising almost solely of random memories, attempts at logic, and despair.

The snow had melted, leaving puddles of dirt and rainwater into the crevices of the roof, which stained her delicate boots. When she reached the rail, holding the intricate pieces of the ceiling together, she followed all the way to the back, coming to rest against Apollo's golden lyre. She bent and hid behind one of the statues, not realising how her toes were already into the air.

The void below felt to suck her towards the ground and she stretched a paniced hand to support herself against its pull. However, when the initial terror was over, she stuck out her head, like a curious little mouse, almost pondering on the idea. One step, then another and she was already halfway to swinging over the edge. Back and forth, back and forth...she repeated the rythmic motion for a few moments, concentrating on the feeling that clenched right below her chest, whenever she bent too far. Maybe that's all it would feel like. Or she would be able to sense the harsh stones of the street.

She shook her head. What was she even considering? Was she out of her mind? She...she couldn't do this to them. To Maman, to Raoul. Perhaps to even Monsieur Khan and Erik. She guessed _he_ would have known the feeling. The temptation of leaning a tad more forward.

More afraid of herself, than for herself, she forcefully stepped down from the rail and convinced herself to walk forcefully to the centre of the roof. Far from the edge and its allure. She had to go back down.

On her way to the house, she rowed in bitter silence, until her mind roamed back to the time she'd heard that entrancing melody ,almost evaporating from the still waters.

_"That is the siren, my dear. It warns against intruders," Erik shrugged, not caring to look up from his newspaper._

She stopped rowing and dragged the paddles inside of the wooden nutshell. Closing her eyes and stretcing her ears, focusing on the soft swaying of the boat. The siren would eventually come for her. And she was once again told of the mechanism's favourite tactics.

Its song would ring, softly as a whisper, slowly rising, both in volume and beauty. If she inched her face close to the surface, a pair of slender, wet yet warm female palms would circle her thin neck and pull her underneath the cold waters. Then, the pain would take less than a minute. The water would flood her lungs, sending burning spasms all over her small body, but finally numbing her mind. Silencing her thoughts for once and for all.

_No...no, no, no...that mindset was all wrong..._ She knew. She did. Yet still she stayed for a moment longer, half avoiding, half wishing for the song to sound. After being greeted only by silence, she cursed lowly and slipped the paddles back into the water, going back to rowing rythmically.

She opened the door and a new set of impulses came flooding back at her. Scissors, rope, flame, poison...take your pick. Erik had a collection of murderous weapons she knew sufficiently little about to get herself injured.

_ You don't want to do it, you don't want to do it..._she kept whispering to herself and occupied her mind with every tiny task at hand; She picked out her favourite mug, took some of her dresses out of her wardrobe, gathered her everyday belongings and brought them all to the couch. Then she spring-cleaned the entire appartement, avoiding the door of the Louis-Philippe room like Pandora's box.

She didn't even realise she was crying while organising the mess he called a room. His desk, the other desk in the corner, the shirts of the past few days inside the laundry basket, the organ...she came across the infamous opera. Carefully, as if picking up a child, she took it in her hands, almost weighting it, curious enought to flip through the curled pages. Too intimate, too soon. She set it back down, next to her belongings in the living room.

"Christine."

She gasped as she turned around, her heart rising in her throat in terror, all of the supressed feeling heating back up.

"You scared me," she whispered breathless.

He rose his hands in apology, hanging his head low. "Forgive me," he paused, unsure of how to continue. "I see you're moving...out...?"

"Well, yes. It's time I face reality like an adult."

He nodded. She was changed, yet not at all, at the same time. "That's good...I mean..."

She cut him off. "I understand. But I can't leave yet. There's one last thing to do-" she choked on the word.

He braided his fingers behind his back. "I could help with the...practicallity of it, if you'd like."

She took a step closer, touching her forehead to his shoulders and feeling his arms wrapping her in a tight embrace. "Thank you, Monsieur Khan."

She couldn't watch. God, she couldn't watch... She locked herself in the kitchen, while she hear Nadir go inside the room and then leaving the house all together. She tried to swallow a glass of water, hoping it would calm her nerves, which it definitely did not. Support her weight on her palms, she leaned over the sink adn closed her eyes, fighting the urge of nausea bubbling up inside her.

When the door was opened again, she came out, trying her best to look as composed as possible.

"It's done...almost. That is, if you still want to go through with this," he reassured her one last time.

"No, I'll do it. Shouldn't it be...more...proper? Formal?" She tied her coat around her shoulders, trying to prepare for the task at hand.

"This way. By the commune cell."

She nodded. "Alright. Thank you for everything."

She was gone before he could respond.

The cellars were dark, but she knew the way. Soon, she saw it. The little well, the water humming softly as it hit the marble and disappeared into the earth. It was the same place, the very place where the phantom had held her half-awake in his trembling embrace for the first time.

The shadow was leaning against the well, a shovel next to it.

She didn't spare a look towards it, for if she did, god, she'd die on the spot.

Taking the shovel, she began working as mechanically as possible, even humming a merry working tune, pretending she was planting flowers in Maman's garden. The soil was hard, adding only some resistance, without slowing her down. Then it was done.

Slowly, minding to inhale through the nose andexhale through the mouth, she finally kneeled next to the well and took off the sheet with her eyes closed. First, the ring. She slipped it off her finger and on the other. The other. It didn't belong to anyone. It couldn't. Yet her eys betrayed her and roamed upwards, to stare at the pair of closed eyes. She ached for a forceful breath, almost breaking down on top of him. She shook, without tears, only the sound of her gasps breaking the deafening silence of the underworld.

On hand flew to caress the cross around her neck, the other to brush his hair away.

"And now..."She breathed, returning her hands on her lap. "I suppose I'll have to find a few words to say to you." She hesitated.

"I found these words ready, I came up with none myself... This is unfair for you... I'll have to find something that is only for you. That will not fit inside it so many others... You were not like so many others." She tried to give him a small smile. He hated her frown.

"I don't want to dress you with second-hand clothes. Worn shoulders and knees. It'll be as if I'm dressing you in rags, as if I'm betraying that I-at least-had seen you cry." There came the first tears. "Why should I tell anyone?" She suddenly felt rage on her temples. "They'll be burning to know you were exactly like them, nothing remarkable! I'll not let anyone remember you in their measures!"

She bent forward and clutched him. "If they don't ache every time, if it doesn't _kill_ them that they didn't know you, that they weren't what I was for you, that they will_ never_ be what _you_ were for _me_, let them not remember you at all."

She sniffled and wiped her tears. "You know, on my way here, I came face to face with two children. The one resembled you, his hair fell like yours and he looked like you when you wear that baggy suit of yours. They saw me wear black and they asked:_'what was he to you?'_

They asked what _you were to me_!

I told them you were my own name. My own soul. And from now on, they can call me however they like."

A slight breeze followed her words. He remained toneless, even when tried to lift him and place him, as respectfully as possible into the ground. She wanted to say goodbye. She knew she needed to say goodbye. But her mouth did not obey her mind and she basked in her silence.

Her hand curled around the handle of the shovel and she picked up some soil. She threw it in.

There are things even the strongest people can't bear.

She turned away and retched to the side, until only saliva came out of her mouth. Another throw, another fit. She almost threw herself on the grave.

After an eternity, she was standing in front of fresh soil. Nothing there to betray the truth. She kneeled and kissed it, letting her lips rest on its moist surface.

"May the Angel Of Music take you home, my love. Goodnight."


	26. Epilogue

The doorbell rang and Marie rushed to answer to the young Vicompte, who stood at the threshold. His eyes were downcast, and he wore black, since he understood everything that had transpired below the opera house. In his hand, he clutched a dark thick pack of sheet music a foreigner gave to him right outside the house. He'd introduced himself as Monsieur Khan, but Raoul was already too awkward coming to see Christine in such a state to care how the young ingenue could know a retired Persian.

"Good evening, mademoiselle," he greeted the maid in a low voice, his blue eyes already searching for his love. "I hope I'm not intruding at a back timing."

She raised her shoulders and offered to take his coat. "No, monsieur, not at all. If there's someone who can console her, that is you. We're desperate."

He made his way towards the staircase unaccompanied, certain it would not be considered improper. "She is that bad?"

Marie nodded, following shortly after him. "And worse, monsieur le Vicompte. This morning, she announced to Madame Valerius she'll be joining a convent in Sweden."

Raoul stopped on the first steps. "A convent?"

She only raised her hands in despair. "Please talk to her, monsieur. La Madame would die if she lost her."

Reassuring her he'd try his best to convince Christine, Raoul hurried to the first floor, where he hesitantly made his way towards her room, not knowing which one it was. Thankfully, all the doors were open, save for one. He knocked on it softly.

"Come in," replied a hollow voice from the other side.

He swallowed hard and rubbed his thin mustache, in a final attempt to calm his nerves.

Christine was sitting on the window seat, looking out onto the street, with her head turned away from him. The pale winter light fell on the side of her cheek visible to him, giving her usually porcelain skin a grey hue. He didn't talk and she remained silent, holding a small prayer book piously on her lap.

He cleared his throat. "Hello," he whispered, too afraid not to startle her.

Finally, a pair of red, swollen eyes turned to look at him and he almost felt sorry for the death of his monstrous rival. The frail creature in front of him had withered into a winter's mist, too thin and pale to be thought of as a living person.

"Hello," she replied, lowering her gaze in shame for her excessive grief. "Forgive me, I am tired lately."

"I'm sorry for your loss, Christine," he tried to phrase it as sensitively as possible. "I know he meant a lot to you."

She didn't answer him, only looked intently at the folder in his hands.

"Oh," he remembered, "of course. A monsieur Khan gave it to me. He said you should have it and that you're welcome to contact him whenever you may feel the need to." He made to leave it on the vanity, when her weak arm stretched out only a little to its direction.

"Could I hold it?" She asked, as if it wasn't meant for her.

He gave it to her and she tenderly caressed its front page, with a motherly look often reserved for infants. He noticed one single tear roll down her sunken cheek, without her making any noise to indicate her pain.

"You are so brave and quiet, one could forget you are suffering," was all he found to say, as he sat close to her.

She only breathed and leaned back to rest her head on his shoulder. "Thank you for coming," she said sincerely, "I needed a friend."

He took her small hand in his and rubbed it affectionately. "I'm always here. Marie told me you'll leave for Sweden."

Her hand continued to blindly caress the score. "Yes."

Her declaration stirred the panic in him alive and he turned slightly to face her. "Please don't leave."

She returned in her window corner. "There is nothing to stay here for."

He tried to reach for her, but she shied away from his touch. "You have your career."

She gave a soft, bitter chuckle. "I believe it will take a long time to sing again. If ever." She bent her knees, resting her head on them.

Raoul wanted to desperately grasp her and shake her back to life, but he stopped himself, knowing it would do more harm than good. "He wouldn't want you to abandon your gift," he tried to talk some sense into her.

Christine closed her eyes with her hand, keeping it on them for a long time. "No, he wouldn't." Her small, calculated breaths told him she was barely holding on. "But now it's up to me to make a choice."

"A convent is not a choice, Christine, it's resignation!" He burst.

The sound seemed to make her shrink further back. "My prayers were ignored for the second time here. I have to go closer to Him, or I'll stop believing altogether."

Her eyes trailed down to the pale band of skin around her finger, were a ring used to be and thought that now, she had a scar of her own for her story. He used to be a whole book of scars.

Raoul stood, understanding his presence unnerved her. "I know it seems impossible," he concluded, "but, please, try to remember how to live again. For him. For me."

"Perhaps someday, my friend."

Her door closed shut behind Raoul, leaving her in her whirlpool of emotions she didn't know how to manage. She took Don Juan in her hands once again, tracing the lines of the ink with her finger before opening it, before reading the bloodied score for the first time.

Messy scribles marked a perfectly elegant musical score, the notes almost like an official print. She thought of releasing it and showing the world what true genius was. But, by doing so, she'd vulglarly release another's soul, to which she held no right to. Careful not to break the sheets apart, she leafed through it, as her mind wondered back to the night she turned to the wrong alleyway.

_"Please, do not be afraid."_

Her chest shook and her eyes burned, without any tears running. There were no more tears left inside her to shed. So, she stood, to store the precious score away, until she would be ready to read it. But, midway into the air, a piece of folded paper escaped and fell to her feet. She bent down and unfolded it, sitting on the floor, too weak to stand for long.

_My beloved Christine,_

_Firstly, I beg you forgive my aloofness, for you know writing is not a talent of mine. If you're reading this, which I doubt you ever will, we've already parted. I do not know if you're sad, or if you cried at all, but I honestly hope you didn't. An angel like you should never cry for a soul already lost._

_Right now, you've forced me into your bed and I can hear you sing from the shower, thinking this will be the only sound I'll ever miss from this earth. Upon my honor, I do not know why I'm even writing this letter, except it seemed unnatural to be unable to speak to you for one last time. And to think, I've already began to miss you. Ah, eternity will indeed be very long without you, my love._

_I remember like it was yesterday the first time I ever heard you. Cynically observing a rehearsal from box five, I caught a glimpse of you, as the bright stagelight graced your ivory skin and as the air carried your heavenly voice into my arms. In time, you managed to turn a shadow back into a man, my Christine. Ever since the moment I was born I had been running- from myself, from humanity, from God himself- and I thought that was all there was to life. Then I met you, my Angel, and dared to think that perhaps I could finally stop running. You touch me and suddenly I feel a little less war torn. I'm not sure what peace is supposed to feel like, but I think it may feel a lot like you. You opened the most beautiful abyss in me._

_In case you mourned for your poor, unhappy Erik, please know that with you, I tasted all the hapiness the world can offer. Be happy, Christine, you deserve it. Continue to grace the world with our Music. And one day, if the tale does not sting too much, repeat the tale of the Angel Of Music to your children, perhaps to guide them, just as you guided me. I hope we do not meet for a very long time, my adored, even if your absence is like a knife inside me. Our song is ended, but the melody lingers on._

_I love you,_

_Erik._

* * *

And this concludes _D'amor sull'ali rosee._ When I began writing this story, a year ago, I was in a dark place, so writing this story helped me deal with my excessive stress and worry. I hope, along with it, I also close all this, and face what's to come with new hope and faith. Thank you for sticking with this story to the end. Until next time!


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